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WORKING MY WAY 
AROUND THE WORLD 




HARRY A. FRANCK 



WORKING MY WAY 
AROUND THE WORLD 



REWRITTEN BY 

LENA M. FRANCK 

FROM 

HARRY A. FRANCK'S "VAGABOND 
JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD" 



ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS 
AND WITH MAPS 




NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1918 






Copyright, 1918, by 
The Century Co. 



Published, September, 1918 



SEP 30 1918 



©Ci.A503631 



'-VvO 



• 



DEDICATED TO 

ALL YOUNG FIRESIDE TRAVELERS 

Still, as my Horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches, too 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER PAGE 

I " Crossin' the Pond wi' the Bullocks" . 3 

II " On the Road " in the British Isles . . 7 

III In Clean Holland . 12 

IV Not Welcome in the Fatherland ... 17 
V Tramping Through France 24 

VI Climbing Over the Alps 29 

VII In Sunny Italy 32 

VIII Among the Arabs 56 

IX A Lonely Journey 75 

X Cities of Old 82 

• XI The Wilds of Palestine 106 

XII Cairo and the Pyramids 129 

XIII A Trip Up the Nile 146 

XIV Stealing a March on the Far East . . 164 
XV In the Land of the Wandering Prince . 180 

XVI The Merry Circus Days 194 

XVII Three Wanderers in India 204 

XVIII The Ways of the Hindu 216 

XIX In the Heart of India 224 

XX Beyond the Ganges 242 

XXI Tramping Through Burma 250 

XXII In the Jungles of Burma 265 

XXIII In Siam 276 

XXIV Hungry Days 287 

XXV Following the Menam River to Bangkok 304 

XXVI On the Way to Hong-Kong 316 

XXVII Wandering in Japan 322 

XXVIII Homeward Bound 332 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Harry A. Franck frontispiece 

PAGE 

A baker's cart of Holland on the morning round ... 14 

Boundary line between France and Germany . ... 21 

My entrance into Paris 22 

The Bridge of Sighs . 39 

My gondolier on the Grand Canal 41 

Country family returning from market 49 

Italian peasants returning from the vineyards to the vil- 
lage 53 

The lonely, Bedouin-infected road over the Lebanon . . 76 
On the road between Haifa and Nazareth I met a road 

repair gang 98 

The shopkeeper and traveling salesman with whom 1 spent 

two nights and a day on the lonely road to Jerusalem 117 

The Palestine beast of burden 119 

A woman of Alexandria, Egypt, carrying two bushels of 

oranges 130 

An abandoned mosque outside the walls of Cairo . . .132 

An Arab cafe in Old Cairo 134 

Sais or carriage runners of Cairo, clearing the streets for 

their master 138 

An Arab gardener 140 

Egypt — A young Arab climbing down the pyramid . .142 

On the top of the largest pyramid 143 

A trip to the pyramids 144 

" Along the way shadoofs were ceaselessly dipping up the 

water " 147 

The Egyptian fellah dwells in a hut of reeds and mud . 156 

Soudan steamer on the Nile 160 



Illustrations 

PAGE 

Arab passengers on the Nile steamer 162 

A Singhalese woman stops often to give her children a 

bath . . 182 

The yogi who ate twenty-eight of the bananas at a sitting 187 

The thatch roof at the roadside 190 

I take a last 'rickshaw ride before taking the steamer for 

India 205 

" Haywood " snaps me as I am getting a shave in Trickin- 

opoly 209 

The Hindu street-sprinkler does not lay much dust . . 228 

I do a bit of laundry work 235 

A lady of Delhi out for a drive in a bullock cart . . . 240 
The chief of a jungle village agrees to guide us for one 

day's journey 267 

A freight carrier crossing the stream that separates Burma 

from Siam 2^y 

My companion, Gerald James of Perth, Australia, cross- 
ing the boundary line between Burma and Siam . . 279 
The sort of jungle through which we cut our way for three 

weeks 292 

Myself after four days in the jungle, and the Siamese sol- 
diers who invited us to eat a frog and lizard supper . 297 
An elephant, with a Mahout dozing on his head, was ad- 
vancing toward us 307 

Bangkok is a city of many canals 317 

My 'rickshaw man 322 

Numadzu 323 

Some street urchins near Tokio 325 

Osaka 326 

Horses are rare in Japan 328 

Japanese children playing in the streets of Kioto . . . 329 
Women do most of the work in the rice-fields of Japan . 330 
Yokohama decorated in honor of Secretary Taft's party . 334 
A Yokohama street decorated for the Taft party . . . 338 



WORKING MY WAY 
AROUND THE WORLD 



WORKING MY WAY 
AROUND THE WORLD 



CHAPTER I 



After spending some sixteen years in schools and colleges, 
I decided, one spring, to take a year off and make a trip 
around the world. I had no money for such a journey; 
but that did n't matter for I meant to " work my way " from 
place to place. I spoke French and German, and had some 
knowledge of Spanish and Italian. I believed that if I had 
to work among the people of foreign countries I would 
learn more of them and of their languages than in any 
other way. So I was not sorry that I had to start my 
journey with only my camera and one hundred and four 
dollars for films. 

As a beginning I had arranged to cross the Atlantic on a 
cattle-boat in the employ of a company in Walker ville, Can- 
ada. This company ships thousands of cattle to the mar- 
kets of England every year. When I asked for a job as 
cattleman, they employed me at once. So it happened that 
on the eighteenth of June, 1904, I crossed the Detroit River 
to Canada, and walked two miles to the Walkerville cattle- 
barns. From the long rows of low brick buildings sounded 
now and then a deep bellow, or the song or whistle of a 

3 



4 Working My Way Around the World 

stock feeder at his labor. I left my bag at the office ar 
joined the crew in the yard. 

The cattlemen had already begun driving the cattle froi 
the stables. It was no easy task. As soon as they were 
free, the sleek animals began to prance, to race, and to bel- 
low, leading the stockmen a merry chase all around the 
yard. Little by little, however, the men managed to urge 
them slowly up the chute into the waiting cars. The set- 
ting sun had reddened the western sky, and darkness had 
fallen in the alleyways between the endless stables, before 
the last bull was tied and the last car door locked. The 
engine gave a warning whistle. We who were to care for 
the stock on the way raced to the office for our bundles, 
tossed them on top of the freight-cars, and climbed aboard 
after them. 

The train began to move. The stockmen left behind 
called out farewells to their friends who were " crossin' the 
pond wi' the bullocks " : " So long, Jim." " Don't fergit 
that smokin' tobacco for me, Bob." And we were off. 

After a short run we came to the main line of the 
Canadian Pacific. Here our cars were joined to a long 
train that was being made up. We were to travel in the 
caboose. As we came into the glare of the tail lights, carry- 
ing our bundles and long poles, the trainmen saw us, and 
began growling : " Huh ! more cow-punchers ! " 

We rode for thirty-six hours. When we reached Mont- 
real at last, we left the stock to the care of the feeders at 
the railroad pens, and went at once to the " Stockyards 
Hotel " — a building filled from bar-room to garret with 
the odor of cattle. 

Where were we going, and when? Up to this time I 
had not even learned on what ship we were to sail. Then 



"Crossin the Pond wi 5 the Bullocks" 5 

.[ heard some one say " Glasgow," and soon the news leaked 
out that we were to sail on the Sardinian two days later. 

On the second evening I went on board the Sardinian 
with the rest of our crew, and wandered around among 
the empty cattle-pens built on the four decks. Toward 
midnight loads of baled straw were brought on board, and 
we began to " bed down " the pens. When this was fin- 
ished, we threw ourselves down in the empty stalls and fell 
asleep. 

We were awakened before daylight by a rush of excited 
cattle and the cries of their drivers. The hubbub lasted 
for three hours. By that time the animals were securely 
tied in their stalls, the winch had yanked up on deck three 
bulls that, having been killed in the rush, were to be dumped 
in the outer bay, and we were off down the St. Lawrence. 
The crew fell to coiling up the shore lines and joined the 
cattlemen in a glad chorus : 

" We 're homeward bound, boys, for Glasgow town ; 
Good-by, fare thee well ; good-by, fare thee well ! " 

The passage across was like other cattle-boat trips. 
There were a few quarrels, a free-for-all fight now and then, 
among the cattlemen ; the work was hard, the food poor, and 
the sailors' quarters in the forecastle unfit to live in. But 
the voyage was no worse than I had expected. 

On the tenth day out, we came on deck to see, a few 
miles off, the sloping coast of Ireland. Patches of grow- 
ing and ripening grain made the island look like a huge 
tilted checkerboard. Before night fell we had left Ireland 
behind, and it was near the mouth of the Clyde River that 
we fed the cattle for the last time. 

A mighty uproar awakened us at dawn. Glasgow long- 



6 Working My Way Around the World 

shoremen, shouting" at the top of their voices, were driving 
the cattle, slipping and sliding, down the gangway. We 
had reached Europe at last! An hour later the cattlemen 
were scattering along the silent streets of Sunday morning 
Glasgow. 



CHAPTER II 

" ON THE ROAD " IN THE BRITISH ISLES 

At noon the next day I received my wages and a printed 
certificate stating that I had been a sailor on the cattle-boat. 
I kept it, for the police would surely demand to know my 
trade while I was tramping through the countries of Europe. 
Tucking my camera into an inside pocket, I struck out 
along the Clyde River toward the Highlands of Scotland. 
I passed through Dumbarton, a town of factories, and at 
evening reached Alexandria. A band was playing. I 
joined the crowd on the village green, and watched the 
young Scots romping and joking, while their elders stood 
apart in gloomy silence. A church clock struck nine. The 
concert ended. The sun was still well above the horizon. 
I went on down the highway until, not far beyond the town, 
the hills disappeared, and I saw the glassy surface of a lake, 
its western end aglow in the light of the drowning sun. It 
was Loch Lomond. 

By and by the moon rose, casting a pale white shimmer 
over the Loch and its little wooded islands. On the next 
hillside stood a field of wheat-stacks. I turned into it, keep- 
ing well away from the owner's house. The straw was 
fresh and clean, and made a soft bed. But the bundles of 
wheat did not protect me from the winds of the Scottish 
Highlands. With a feeling that I had not slept soundly, 
I rose at daybreak and pushed on. 

Two hours of tramping brought me to Luss, a pretty 
little village on the edge of Loch Lomond. I hastened to 

7 



8 Working My Way Around the World 

the principal street in search of a restaurant; but the village 
was everywhere silent and asleep. Down on the beach of 
the Loch a lone fisherman was preparing his tackle. He 
was displeased when I said his fellow townsmen were late 
risers. 

" Why, mon, 't is no late! " he protested ; " 't is no more 
nor five — and a bonny morning it is, too. But there 's a 
mist in it," he complained as he looked at the sky. 

I glanced at the bright morning sun and the unclouded 
sky. I could see no mist, nor any sign of rain. Trying 
to forget my hunger, I stretched out on the sands to wait 
for the morning steamer. Ben Lomond, a mountain I had 
read of in Scott's " Lady of the Lake," stood just across 
the Loch, and I had made up my mind to climb it 

About six, a heavy-eyed shopkeeper sold me a roll of 
bologna and a loaf of bread. The steamer whistle sounded 
before I got back to the beach. I bought a ticket at the 
wooden wharf, and hurried out to board the steamer. 

A big Scot stepped in front of me and demanded 
" tup'nce." 

" But I 've paid my fare," I said, holding up the ticket. 

" Aye, mon, ye hov," rumbled the native, straddling his 
legs and thrusting out his elbows. " Ye hov, mon. But 
ye hovna paid fer walkin' oot t' yon boat on our wharf." 

Ten minutes later I paid again, this time for being allowed 
to walk off the boat at Renwardenen. 

Plodding through a half mile of heath and marsh, I 
struck into the narrow white path that zigzagged up the 
face of the mountain. The mist that the fisherman had 
seen began to settle down, and soon turned to a drenching 
rain. Fof five hours I scrambled upward, slipping and fall- 
ing on wet stones and into deep bogs, and coming at last to a 



"On the Road" in the British Isles 9 

broad, Hat rock where the path disappeared. It was the 
top of old Ben Lomond, a tiny island surrounded by whirl- 
ing gray mist. The wind blew so hard that it almost bowled 
me off my feet into the sea of fog. 

I set off down the opposite slope. In the first stumble 
down the mountain I lost my way, and came out upon a 
boggy meadow, where I wandered for hours over low hills 
and through swift streams. Now and then I scared up a 
flock of shaggy highland sheep that raced away down wild 
looking valleys. There was neither road nor foot-path. 
For seven miles I dragged myself, hand over hand, through 
a thick growth of shrubs and bushes ; and once I fell head 
first into an icy mountain river before I reached the high- 
way. 

At the foot a new disappointment awaited me. There 
was a hotel, but it was of the millionaire-club kind. I 
turned toward a group of board shanties at the roadside. 

" Can you sell me something to eat? " I inquired of the 
sour-faced mountaineer who opened the first door. 

" I can no ! " he snapped. " Go to the hotel ! " 

There were freshly baked loaves plainly in sight in the 
next hovel where I stopped. 

" Have you nothing to eat in the house ? " I demanded. 

" No, mon ; I 'm no runnin' a shop." 

" But you can sell me a loaf of that bread? " 

"No!" bellowed the Scot. "We hovna got any. Go 
to the hotel. Yon 's the place for tooreests." 

I tried at the other huts ; but nobody would sell me any 
bread. So, though I had already tramped and climbed 
twenty-five miles, I struck off through the sea of mud that 
passed for a road, toward Aberfoyle, fifteen miles distant. 

The rain continued. There was another lake, and then 



10 Working My Way Around the World 

the road stretched away across a dreary field. I became 
so weary that I forgot I was hungry — then so drowsy 
that I could hardly force my legs to carry me on. Dusk 
fell, then darkness. It was past eleven when I splashed into 
Aberfoyle, too late to find an open shop. I hunted until I 
found an inn, rang the bell until I awoke a servant, and went 
supperless to bed. 

Late the next morning I hobbled out into the streets of 
Aberfoyle to the station, and took the train for Sterling. 
Two days later, in the early afternoon, I reached Edinburgh. 
Following the signs that pointed the way to the poor man's 
section, I brought up in Haymarket Square, a place well 
known in history. Many places in Europe that were once 
the palaces of kings and queens are the slums of to-day. A 
crowd of careless-looking men, in groups and in pairs, 
sauntered back and forth at the foot of a statue in the center 
of the square. One of them, as ragged and uncombed as 
his hearers, was making a speech. Another, in his shirt 
sleeves, wandered from group to group, trying to sell his 
coat for the price of a night's lodging. 

A sorry-looking building in front of me bore the sign: 
" Edinburgh Castle Inn. Clean, capacious beds, 6 shil- 
lings." 

I went inside, and found the place so dirty that I was glad 
to escape again into the street. A big policeman marched 
up and down with an air of importance. 

"Where shall I find a fairly cheap lodging-house?" I 
asked him. 

" Try the Cawstle Inn h'over there," replied " Bobby," 
grandly waving his Sunday gloves toward the place I had 
just left. 

" But that place is not clean," I objected. 



"On the Road" in the British Isles 11 

" Not clean ! Certainly it is clean ! There 's a bloomin' 
law makes 'em keep 'em clean," shouted Bobby, glaring at 
me. 

I entered another inn facing the square, but was thankful 
to escape from it to the one I had first visited. Here I paid 
for my lodging, and passed into the main room. It was fur- 
nished with benches, tables, and several cook-stoves. 

Men were crowded around these stoves, getting their own 
supper. Water, fuel, and dishes were furnished free to all 
who had paid their lodging. On the stoves were sputtering 
or boiling many kinds of cheap food, tended by tattered men 
who handled frying-pans with their coat-tails as holders, 
and cut up cabbages or peeled potatoes with knives that had 
half-inch layers of tobacco on their blades. Each ate his 
mixture with the greatest enjoyment, as soon as it showed 
the least sign of being cooked, often without giving it time 
to cool, as I *could tell by the expression on the faces about 
me. 



CHAPTER III 

IN CLEAN HOLLAND 

Three days later I took passage to London, and that same 
afternoon sailed for Rotterdam. At sunrise the next morn- 
ing I climbed on deck, and found the ship steaming slowly 
through a peaceful canal. On all sides were flat plains, 
stretching as far as the eye could see. Far below us were 
clusters of squat cottages with the white smoke of kindling 
fires curling slowly upward from their chimneys. Here and 
there a peasant, looking very tiny from • our high deck, 
crawled along over the flat meadows. In the distance 
clumsy windmills were turning slowly in the morning 
breeze. 

Our canal opened out into the busy harbor of Rotterdam. 
A customs officer asked me where I was going, slapped me 
on the back in a fatherly fashion, and warned me in Ger- 
man to look out for the " bad people " who lay in wait for 
seamen ashore. 

I quickly tired of the city, and turned out along the 
broad, flat highway to Delft. The road ran along at the 
side of a great canal, and at times crossed branch waterways 
half hidden by boats, filled with cargo, toiling slowly by on 
their way to market and by empty boats gliding easily home- 
ward. On board, stout men bowed double over the poles 
they use to push their craft along. On the bank, along 
the gravel path, women strained like oxen at the tow-ropes 
around their shoulders. 



In Clean Holland 13 

In the early afternoon I passed through Delft, and pushed 
on toward The Hague. Beyond Delft I turned into a nar- 
row cobblestone roadway running betw r een two canals. It 
was a quiet route. I went on my lonely way, thinking of 
many things and gazing off across the flat green country. 

Suddenly a galloping " rat-a-tat " sounded close behind 
me. A runaway horse ! To pause and glance behind might 
cost me my life; for the crazed brute was almost upon me. 
With a swiftness born of fear, I began to run! Luckily, 
ahead of me I spied a foot-bridge over one of the canals. 
I made one flying leap toward it, and reached it in safety 
just as there dashed by me at full speed — a Hollander of 
some six summers, bound to market with a basket on his 



arm 



After spending only a few hours in the interesting city of 
The Hague, I looked for the highway to Leiden. I was not 
very successful in my search for it, for the mixed language 
of German, English, and deaf-and-dumb show with which 
I tried to make myself understood did not get me clear direc- 
tions. A road to Leiden was finally pointed out to me right 
enough, but it was not a public highway. By some mistake, 
I set out along the Queen's private driveway, w r hich led to 
the boyhood home of Rembrandt, the great Dutch artist. 

It was a pleasure to travel by the Queen's own highway, 
of course, especially as it led through a fragrant forest park. 
But, unfortunately, there was no chance of finding an inn 
when hunger and darkness came on me. There was not 
even a cross-road to lead me back to the public highway, 
where I could find a place to eat and sleep. So I plodded 
on deep into the lonely forest until night overtook me. Just 
what hour it was when I reached Leiden, I could not tell. 
But it was certainly late ; for, except a few drowsy police- 



14 Working My Way Around the World 

men, the good people, and even the bad, were sound asleep. 
With a painful number of miles in my legs, I went to bed 
on a pile of lumber. 

The warm sun awoke me early — before the first shop- 




A baker's cart of Holland on the morning round 

keeper was astir. It was Sunday, so I was not able to buy 
any food. Still hungry, I set off toward Haarlem. On 
those flat lowlands it was disagreeably hot. Yet the peas- 
ants, in their uncomfortable Sunday clothes, plodded for 
miles along the dusty highway to the village church. 

The men marched along sadly, as if they were going to 
prison. The women, stout, and painfully awkward in their 
stiffly starched skirts, tramped perspiringly behind the men. 
Even the children, the frolicking, romping youngsters of the 



In Clean Holland l £ 

day before, were imprisoned in home-made strait- jackets, 
and suffered discomfort in uncomplaining silence. Yet one 
and all spoke a pleasant word to me as they passed. 

Ever since leaving Rotterdam, I had noticed that there 
were no wells in country places. I had so far been able to 
quench my thirst only in the villages. But toward noon on 
this hot Sunday I became so thirsty that I finally turned in 
at the only place in sight, a farm cottage. Beside the road 
ran the ever-present canal. A narrow foot-bridge crossed 
it to the gateway leading to the cottage. Around the house 
ran a branch of the main waterway, giving the farmer a 
place to moor his canal-boat. I could not open the gate, and 
I had to shout again and again before any one in the -house 
heard me. At last, from around the corner of the building 
a very heavy woman came into view, bearing down upon 
me like an ocean liner sailing into a calm, harbor. I could 
not speak Dutch, but I did the best I could. Perhaps the 
lady spoke some German, so I said : " Ein Glass Wasser, 
bitte." 

"Vat?" 

It could do no harm to give my mother tongue a trial : 

" A glass of water." 

"Eh!" 

I tried a mixture of the two languages : 

" Ein glass of vater." 

This time she understood. 

"Vater?" shrieked the lady, with such force that the 
rooster in the back yard leaped sidewise a distance of six 
feet. "Vater!" 

" Ja, Vater, bitte." 

A deep silence followed — a silence so intense that one 
could have heard a fly pass by a hundred feet above. 



16 Working My Way Around the World 

Slowly the lady placed a heavy hand on the gate between 
us. Perhaps she was wondering if it were strong enough 
to keep out the madman on the other side. Then, with a 
snort, she wheeled about and waddled toward the house. 
Close under the eaves of the cottage hung a tin basin. 
Snatching it down, she sailed for the canal behind the house, 
stooped, dipped up a basinful of that very same weed- 
clogged water that flowed by at my feet, and moved back 
across the yard to offer it to me with a patient sigh. After 
that, whenever I became thirsty, I got my drink from road- 
side canals after the manner of beasts of the field — and 
Hollanders. 

Long before I reached Haarlem, I came upon the great 
flower farms. I saw more and more of these as I neared 
the town. I passed through the city of tulips and out onto 
the broad, straight highway that leads to Amsterdam. It 
ran as straight as a bee line to where it disappeared in a 
fog of rising heat-waves. Throughout its length it was 
crowded with vehicles, horseback riders, and, above all, with 
wheelmen who would not turn aside an inch for me, but 
drove me again and again into the wayside ditch. 

I reached Amsterdam late in the afternoon; and, after 
much wandering in and out among the canals, I found a 
room in a garret overhanging the sluggish waterway. The 
place was clean, as we have heard all places are in Holland, 
and there was a coffee-house close at hand, where eggs, milk, 
cheeses, and dairy products of all kinds were served at 
small cost and in cleanly surroundings. 

I visited parks, museums, and the laborers' quarters in 
Amsterdam, and every evening spent a long time searching 
for my canal-side garret, because it looked so much like 
other canal-side garrets. 



CHAPTER IV 

NOT WELCOME IN THE FATHERLAND 

One afternoon, while in my favorite coffee-house, I heard 
some one say that a cargo-boat was to leave for a town in 
Germany on the Rhine, and that passengers could go along 
for a song. It was to leave at four. I thrust a lunch into 
a pocket, and hurried down to the boat. She was a big 
canal-boat, as black as a coal-barge, but not so clean. Her 
uncovered deck was piled high with boxes, barrels, and 
crates, holding everything from beer mugs to noisy chickens. 
I scrambled over the cargo, and found a seat on a barrel 
of oil. 

I left the cargo-boat at the German town of Arnheim, and 
walked along the Rhine, stopping at the towns along the 
way. Partly on foot and partly by steamer, I made my way 
to the city of Mainz. From there I turned eastward and 
tramped along the highway to Frankfurt. 

It was late at night when I reached Frankfurt. The high- 
way ended among the great buildings of the business blocks. 
After hunting for some time I found, on a dingy side street, 
a building on which there was a sign offering lodging at one 
mark. Truly it was a high price to pay for a bed ; but the 
hour was late, the night stormy, and I was tired. I entered 
the drinking-room. The bartender was busy quieting the 
shouts of " Glas Bier " that rose above the rest of the noise. 
As soon as I could get his attention, I told him that I 
wanted lodging. 

" Beds? " cried the Kellner, too busy with his glasses to 

17 



18 Working My Way Around the World 

look up at me. " To be sure — we have always plenty of 
beds. One mark." 

But mein Herr, the proprietor, was staring at me from 
the back of the hall. Slowly he shuffled forward, cocked his 
head on one side, and studied me closely from out his bleary 
eyes. 

" What does he want? " he demanded, turning to the bar- 
tender. 

I told him that I wanted a night's lodging. 

" Where do you come from? " 

Knowing that he would ask other questions, I explained 
fully why I was there, and told him that I was an American 
sailor on a sight-seeing trip in the Fatherland. The drink- 
ers clustered about us and listened. I could see that they did 
not believe me. While I was talking, they began exchang- 
ing glances and nudging one another with looks of disbe- 
lief on their faces. Perhaps they distrusted me because I 
talked like a foreigner and wore the dress of a wanderer. 

The proprietor blinked his pudgy eyes, glanced once more 
into the faces of those about him to see what they thought 
about it. It may be that he wanted to let me stay; but 
what would the police inspector say in the morning when he 
saw the name of a foreigner on the register? He scratched 
his grizzly head as if to bring out an idea with his stubby 
fingers. Then he glanced once more at the tipplers, and 
said, with a blink : 

" It gives me pain, young man — I am sorry, but we have 
not a bed left in the house." 

I wandered out into the night, and told my story to five 
other inn-keepers. None of them would take me in. One 
proprietor told me the best way for me to preserve my good 
health was to make a quick escape into the street. As he 



Not Welcome in the Fatherland 19 

was a creature of immense size, I lost no time in following 
his advice. It was midnight when I finally induced a police- 
man to tell me where to stay. He pointed out an inn where 
wanderers were not so much of a curiosity, and I was soon 
asleep. 

The next morning I set out to find the birthplace of the 
German poet Goethe. When I reached a part of the city 
where I thought he had lived, I asked a policeman to show 
me the house. 

" Goethe? " he said. Why, yes, he believed he had heard 
that name somewhere. He was not sure, but he fancied 
the fellow lived in the eastern part of the city, and he told 
me how to get there. The route led through narrow, wind- 
ing streets. Now and then I lost my way, and was set 
right by other keepers of the law. At last, after tramping 
most of the morning and wearing out considerable shoe- 
leather, I found the place directly across the street from the 
inn at which I had slept. 

The next morning I made up my mind to go by rail to 
Weimar. The train was to start at nine o'clock. I reached 
the station at eight-forty, bought a fourth-class ticket, and 
stepped out upon the platform just in time to hear a guard 
bellow the German words for " All aboard ! " The Weimar 
train stood close at hand. As I stepped toward it, four 
policemen, strutting about the platform, whooped and 
sprang after me. 

" Where are you going? " shrieked the first to reach me. 

" I go to Weimar." 

" But the train to Weimar is gone ! " shouted the second 
officer. 

As I had a hand on the car door, I became so bold as to 
contradict him. 



20 Working My Way Around the World 

"But yes, it has gone! " gasped a third sergeant, who 
stood behind the others. " It is gone! The guard has al- 
ready said ' All aboard.' " 

The train stood at the edge of the platform long enough 
to have emptied and filled again; but, as it was gone ten 
minutes before it started, I was obliged to wait for the next 
one at ten-thirty. 

I managed to board the next one. It was a box car with 
wooden benches around the sides and a door at each end. 
Almost before we were well started, the most uncombed 
couple aboard stood up and began to yell. I was alarmed at 
first, for I did not know what was the matter with them. 
But after a time I realized that they thought they were sing- 
ing. Many of the passengers seemed to think so too, for 
before the pair left at the first station they had gathered a 
handful of pennies from the listeners. 

We stopped at a station at least every four miles during 
that day's journey. At the first village beyond Frankfurt 
the car filled with peasants and laborers in heavy boots and 
rough smocks, who carried farm tools of all kinds, from 
pitchforks to young plows. Sunburned women, on whose 
backs were strapped huge baskets stuffed with every 
product of the country-side, from cabbages to babies, 
packed into the center of the car, turned their backs on those 
of us who sat on the benches and peacefully leaned them- 
selves and their loads against us. The car filled until there 
was not room for one more. 

A guard outside closed the heavy door with a bang, then 
gave a mighty shout of "Vorsicht!" ("Look out") 
The station-master on the platform raised a hunting-horn 
to his lips, and blew such a blast as echoed through the ra- 
vines of all the country round. The head guard drew his 



Not Welcome in the Fatherland 21 



whistle and shrilly repeated the signal. The engineer 
whistled back. The guard whistled again; the driver gave 
forth another wild shriek to show that he was ready to start ; 
the man on the platform whistled once more to cheer him 
on ; a heroic squeal came from the cab in answer ; and, with 
a jerk that sent peasants, baskets, farm tools, lime-pails, and 
cabbages all in a struggling heap at the back of the car, we 
were off. To celebrate the start the engineer shrieked again 
and gave a second yank, lest some sure-footed person among 
us had by any chance kept his balance. 

There were times during the journey when the villages 
seemed to be too far apart to suit the engineer. For, hav- 
ing given all the toots, 
he would bring the car 
to a sudden stop in the 
open country. But, as 
German railway laws for- 
bid passengers to step 
out, crawl out, or peep 
out of the car at such 
times, there was no way 
of learning whether the 
engineer had lost his 
courage or had merely 
caught sight of a wild 
flower that took his 
fancy. 

I arrived at Weimar 
late at night. Next day 
I set out on foot toward 
Paris, on the old national 
road, It wound its way 



Boundary line between France and 
Germany. It runs through wheat 
fields on either side. The nearest 
sign post bears the German eagles 
and the further one reads " Fron- 
tiere." 



22 Working My Way Around the World 



over rolling hills and among the ravines and valleys 
where was fought a great battle between Germany and 
France in the Franco-Prussian War. For miles along the 
way, dotting the hillsides, standing alone or in clusters along 
lazy brooks or half hidden among the green of summer, were 

countless simple white 
crosses marking the 
graves of fallen soldiers 
and bearing only the 
simple inscription, " Here 

rests Krieger 1870." 

At one place I came 
upon a gigantic statue 
of a soldier pointing 
away across a deep 
wooded glen to the vast 
graveyard of his fallen 
comrades. 

A mile farther on, in 
the open country, two 
iron posts marked the 
boundary between the two 
countries. A farmer, with his mattock, stood in Germany, 
grubbing at a weed that grew in France. 

I expected to be stopped when I tried to pass into France, 
for I knew that the two countries were not on the most 
friendly terms. The customs house was a mere cottage, the 
first building of a straggling village some miles beyond the 
boundary. When I came within sight of it, a friendly-look- 
ing Frenchman, in a uniform worn shiny across the shoul- 
ders and the seat of the trousers, wandered out into the high- 
way to meet me. Behind him strolled a second officer. 




^ .;.,..,. 



Plodding early and late, I reached 
Paris a few days after crossing the 
boundary. 



Not Welcome in the Fatherland 23 

But they did not try to delay me. They cried out in sur- 
prise when I told them I was an American walking to Paris. 
They merely glanced into my bundle, and as I went on they 
called out after me, " Bon voyage! " 

I had to wait for some time whenever I came to a railway 
crossing. Ten minutes before a train was due, the gate- 
woman would close both gates and return to the shades of 
her cottage close by. If the train happened to be an hour 
late, that made no difference. That was the time that 
Madame was hired to lock the gates, and locked they must 
remain until the train had passed. It was useless to try to 
climb over them, for Madame's tongue was sharp and the 
long arm of the law was on her side. 

Plodding early and late, I reached Paris a few days after 
crossing the boundary. 

A month of tramping had made me an awful sight. 
Moreover, it was August, and my woolen garments had been 
purchased with the winds of the Scottish Highlands in mind. 
For fifteen francs I bought an outfit more suited to the 
climate. Then I rented a garret, and roamed through the 
city for three weeks. 



CHAPTER V 

TRAMPING THROUGH FRANCE 

The month of August was drawing to a close when I 
started southward. At first I had to pass through noisy, 
dirty villages filled with crying children and many curs. 
Beyond, travel was more pleasant, for the national highways 
are excellently built. The heaviest rain raises hardly a layer 
of mud. But these roads wind and ramble like mountain 
streams. They zigzag from village to village even in a level 
country, and where hills abound there are villages ten miles 
apart with twenty miles of tramping between them. 

I passed on into a pleasant rolling country. Beyond 
Nemours, where I spent the second night, I came upon two 
tramps. They were sitting in the shade of a giant oak, 
enjoying a breakfast of hard bread which they dipped, now 
and then, into a brook at their feet. They invited me to 
share their feast, but I explained that I had just had break- 
fast. After finishing they went on with me. They were 
miners on their way to the great coal-fields of St. Etienne. 
We were well acquainted in a very short time. They called 
me " mon vieux," which means something like " old man " 
in our language, and greeted every foot-traveler they met 
by the same title. 

There are stern laws in France against wandering from 
place to place. I knew that the three of us, traveling to- 
gether, would be asked to explain our business. We were 
still some distance off from the first village when I saw an 

24 



Tramping Through France 



25 



officer step from the door of a small building and walk out 
into the middle of the road to wait for us. 

"Where are you going?" he demanded sternly. 

" To St. Etienne," 

" And your papers? " 

" Here ! " cried the miners, each snatching a worn-looking 
book from a pocket under his coat. 

The gendarme stuffed one of the books under an arm, and 
began to look through the other. Between its greasy covers 
was a complete history of its owner. It told when he was 
born and where ; where he was baptized ; when he had been 
a soldier, and how he had behaved during his three years in 
the army; and so on, page after page. Then came pages 
that told where he had worked, what his employer thought 
of him, with wages, dates, and reasons why he had stopped 
working at that particular place. It took the gendarme a 
long time to look through it. 

He finished examining both books at last, and handed 
them back with a gruff " Well ! " 

" Next yours," he growled. 

" Here it is," I answered, and pulled from my pocket a 
letter of introduction written to American consuls and 
signed by our Secretary of State. 

With a puzzled look, the gendarme unfolded the letter. 
When he saw the strange-looking English words he gasped 
with astonishment. 

" What ! " he exclaimed. " What is this you have 
here?" 

" My passport," I answered. " I am an American." 

" Ha ! American ! Zounds ! And that is really a pass- 
port? Never before have I seen one." 

It was not really a passport, although it was as good as 



26 Working My Way Around the World 

one ; but as the gendarme could not read it, he was in no 
position to dispute my word. 

" Very good," he went on; " but you must have another 
paper to prove that you have worked." 

Here was a difficulty. If I told him that I was a traveler 
and no workman, he would probably put me in jail. For 
a moment I did not know what to do. Then I snatched 
from my bundle the paper showing that I had worked on a 
cattle-boat. 

" Bah ! " grumbled the officer. " More foreign gibberish. 
What is this villain language that the evil one himself could 
not read? " 

" English." 

" Ticns, but that is a queer thing! " he said thoughtfully, 
holding the paper out at arm's length, and scratching his 
head. However, with some help he finally made out one 
date on the paper, and, handing it back with a sigh, allowed 
us to pass on. 

"Wait!" he cried before we had taken three steps. 
" What country did you say you came from? " 

" America," I answered. 

" L'Amerique ! And, being in America, you come to 
France? Oh, my soul, what idiocy!" And, waving his 
arms above his head, he fled to the shade of his office. 

We journeyed along as before, showing our papers at 
each village, and once being stopped in the open country by 
a gendarme on horseback. By the time we reached Briare 
in the early afternoon, the miners looked so lean with hunger 
that I offered to pay for a meal for three. They needed no 
second invitation, and led the way at once to a place that 
looked to me like nothing but an empty warehouse. The 



Tramping Through France 27 

miners pushed open a door, and we entered a low room, 
gloomy and unswept. Around the table to which we made 
our way, through a forest of huge wine barrels, were gath- 
ered a dozen or more peasants. 

The keeper of the place set out before us a loaf of coarse 
bread and a bottle of wine, and then went back to his seat 
on a barrel. His shop was really the wine cellar of a restau- 
rant that faced the main street. The fare would have cost 
us twice as much there. One of the miners asked me if he 
might order two sous? worth of raw salt pork. Having ob- 
tained my consent, he did so, and he and his companion ate 
it with great relish. 

I left my companions behind soon after, for they could 
not walk the thirty miles a day that I had planned for myself, 
and passed on into the vineyard and forest country. In the 
fields left bare by the harvesters, peasant women were gath- 
ering with the greatest care every overlooked straw they 
could find, and, their aprons full, plodded homeward. 

The inhabitants were already lighting their lamps when I 
entered the village of La Charite. The bells of a gray 
church began to ring out the evening angelus. Squat house- 
wives gossiped at the doors of the stone cottages that lined 
the road. From the neighboring fields heavy ox-carts, the 
yokes fastened across the horns of the animals, lumbered 
homeward. In the dwindling light a blacksmith before his 
open shop was fitting with flat iron shoes a spotted ox tied 
up on its back in a frame. 

I inquired for an inn, and was directed to a ramshackle 
stone building, one end of which was a stable. Inside, 
under a sputtering lamp, huddled two men, a woman, and a 
girl, around a table that looked as if it had held too much 
wine in its day and was for that reason unsteady on its legs. 



28 Working My Way Around the World 

The four were so busy eating bread and soup that they did 
not see me come in. 

Walking forward to attract attention in the dim light, 
I stepped on the end of a loose board that supported two 
legs of the tipsy table, causing the bowl of soup to slide into 
the woman's arms and a loaf to roll to the earthen floor. 
That was unlucky but it made them notice me. One of the 
men was the proprietor, the other a tramp who spoke very 
queer French. All the evening, waving his arms above his 
head, he talked excitedly of the misfortunes he had lived 
through. 

At last the girl agreed to show me to a room. She led the 
way out of doors, up an outside stairway, to a hole about 
four feet high over the stable. Here I spent the night, and 
at daybreak I resumed my journey. 

At that season half the highways of France were lined 
with hedges heavy with blackberries. At first I was not 
sure they were blackberries, and I w r as afraid to eat them ; 
for I had noticed that the thrifty French peasant never 
touched them, letting them go to waste. But, coming one 
morning upon a hedge fairly loaded with large, juicy fruit, 
I tasted one, discovered that it was a real blackberry, and 
fell to picking a capful. A band of peasants, on their way 
to the fields, stopped to gaze at me in astonishment, and 
burst into loud laughter. 

" But, mon vicux" cried a plowman, " what in the world 
will you do with those berries there? " 

" Eat them, of course," I answered. 

" Eat them ! " roared the countrymen. " But those 
things are not good to eat." And they went on, laughing 
louder than before. 



CHAPTER VI 

CLIMBING OVER THE ALPS 

I tramped through several villages, and came to the bank 
of the Upper Loire River. A short distance beyond, the 
road began winding up the first foot-hills of the Alps. 
Along the way every rocky hillside was cut into steps to its 
very top, and every step was thickly set with grape-vines. 

As I continued climbing upward I left the patches of 
grape-vines below me, and came to waving forests where 
sounded the twitter of birds and now and then the cheery 
song of a woodsman or shepherd boy. 

At sunset I reached the top. The road led downward, 
the forests fell away, the tiny fields appeared once more, and 
the song of the mountaineer was silent. Lower still, I 
spent the night at a barracks half filled with soldiers. 

The next day was Sunday. As I tramped down the 
mountains I met groups of people from Lyon, chattering 
gaily as, dressed in their Sunday clothes, they climbed to 
the freer air of the hills. I continued my downward jour- 
ney, stopping now and then to look about me. The grape- 
vines disappeared, to give place to mulberry trees. From 
my height I could see the city of Lyon at the meeting-place 
of the rivers Soane and Rhone. Even on this day of merry- 
making the whir of silk-looms sounded from the wayside 
cottages, well into the suburbs of the city. 

From Lyon I turned northeastward toward the Alps. A 
route winding like a snake climbed upward. Often I 
tramped for hours around the edge of a yawning pit, hav- 

29 



30 Working My Way Around the World 

ing always in view a rugged village and its vineyards far 
below, only to find myself at the end of that time within a 
stone's throw of a sign-post that I had passed before. But 
I kept on, passed through Geneva, and in a few days' time 
came to the town of Brig, at the foot of the Simplon Pass 
which crosses the Alps. 

The highway over the Simplon Pass was built by Napo- 
leon in 1805. It is still,. in spite of the railways built since, 
a w r ell traveled route, though not by foot travelers. The 
good people of Brig cried out against it when I told them 
I was going to cross on foot. 

With a lunch in my knapsack, I left Brig at dawn. Be- 
fore the sun rose the morning stage-coach rattled by, and 
the jeering of its drivers cheered me on. With every turn 
of the route up the mountain the picture below me grew. 
Three hours up, Brig still peeped out through the slender 
pine trees far below, yet almost directly beneath. Across 
the pit sturdy mountain boys scrambled from rock to 
boulder with their sheep and goats. Far above the last 
shrub, ragged peaks of stone stood against the blue sky like 
figures of curious shapes, peaks aglow with nature's richest 
coloring, here one deep purple in the morning shade, there 
another of ruddy pink, changing like watered silk in the 
sunshine that gilded its top. Beyond the spot where Brig 
was lost to view began the roadside cottages in which the 
traveler, tired out or overcome by the raging storms of win- 
ter, may seek shelter. In this summer season, however, 
they had been changed into wine-shops, where children and 
stray goats wandered among the tables. 

Higher up I found scant footing on the narrow ledges. 
In several places the road burrowed its way through tunnels. 
High above one of these, a glacier sent down a roaring 



Climbing Over the Alps 31 

torrent right over the tunnel. Through an opening in the 
outer wall I could reach out and touch the foaming stream 
as it plunged into the abyss below. 

Light clouds, that had hidden the peaks during the last 
hours of the climb, almost caused me to pass by without 
seeing the hospice of St. Bernard that marks the summit. 
It is here that those wonderful St. Bernard dogs are trained 
to hunt for and give aid to travelers lost in the snow. I 
stepped inside to write a postal card to the world below, 
and turned out again into a drizzling rain that soon became 
a steady downpour. But the miles that had seemed so long 
in the morning fairly raced by on the downward trip, and 
a few hours later I reached the boundary line between 
France and Italy. 



CHAPTER VII 

IN SUNNY ITALY 

The next morning I continued my tramp into sunny 
Italy. The highway was covered with deep mud, and my 
garments were still wet when I drew them on. But the day 
was bright with sunshine. The vine-covered hillside and 
rolling plains below, the lizards basking on every shelf of 
rock, peasant women plodding barefoot along the route, 
made it hard to realize that the weather of the day before 
had been dismal and chilling. 

As I walked on I met countless poor people. Ragged 
children quarreled for the possession of an apple-core 
thrown by the wayside; the rolling fields were alive with 
barefooted women toiling like slaves. A sparrow could 
not have found a living behind them. In wayside orchards 
men armed with grain-sacks stripped even the trees of their 
leaves — for what purpose I did not know until the bed I 
was assigned to in the village below offered a possible ex- 
planation. All along the highway were what looked from 
a distance like walking hay-stacks. But when I came nearer 
I saw beneath them the tired faces of women or half grown 
girls. 

Nightfall found me looking for lodging in a lake-side vil- 
lage half way between Como and Lecco. I found an inn 
after a long and careful search ; but, as it had no door open- 
ing on to the street, I was puzzled as to where to enter it. 
There was a dark passageway and a darker stairway before 
me, leading downward into a pit. I plunged down the pas- 

32 



In Sunny Italy 33 

sage with my hands out in front of me — which was for- 
tunate, for I brought up against a stone wall. Then I 
stealthily approached the stairway, stumbled up the stone 
steps over a stray cat and a tin pan, and into the common 
room of the village inn — common because it served as 
kitchen, dining-room, parlor, and office. 

I asked for supper and lodging. The proprietor half 
rose to his feet, sat down again, and motioned me to a seat. 
I took a place opposite him on one of the two benches near 
the fireplace, partly because it had been raining outside, but 
chiefly because there were no chairs. A long silence fol- 
lowed. The keeper sat on his bench, staring long and 
hard at me without saying a word. His wife wandered 
in and placed several pots and kettles around the fire that 
toasted our heels. 

" Not nice weather," grinned the landlord at last, and 
after that we were soon engaged in lively conversation. 
Too lively, in fact, for my host at one time became so ear- 
nest about something he was telling that he kicked over a 
kettle of macaroni, and was banished from the chimney- 
corner by his angry wife. Not being in the habit of making 
gestures with my feet, I kept my place and tried to answer 
the questions that the exile fired at me from across the room. 

When drowsiness fell upon me, the hostess led the way 
to a large, airy room. The coarse sheets on the bed were 
remarkably white, although the Italian housewife does her 
washing in the village brook, and never uses hot water. 
Such labor is cheap in Italy, and for all of this I paid less 
than ten cents. 

Early next day I pushed on toward Lecco. A light frost 
had fallen in the night, and the peasants, alarmed by the 
first breath of winter, sent into the vineyards every man, 



34 Working My Way Around the World 

woman, and child able to work. The pickers labored fever- 
ishly. All day women plodded from the fields to the road- 
side with great buckets of grapes to be dumped into barrels 
on waiting ox-carts. Men wearing heavy wooden shoes 
jumped now and then into the barrels and stamped the 
grapes down. When full, the barrels were covered with 
strips of dirty canvas, the farmer climbed into his cart, 
turned his oxen into the highway, and promptly fell asleep. 
When he reached the village, he drew up before the chute 
of the village wine-press, and shoveled his grapes into a 
slowly revolving hopper. Here they were crushed to an 
oozy pulp, and then run into huge tanks and left to settle. 

After stopping for a morning lunch I tramped through 
and beyond Bergamo, where a level highway led across a 
vast plain covered with grape-vines and watered by a net- 
work of canals. Behind me only a ghostlike range of the 
Alps wavered in the haze of the distant sky-line. 

About the time I arrived in northern Italy the butchers 
had gone on a strike. That did not trouble me much, for I 
had eaten nothing but bread for weeks. The bread was 
made into loaves of the size, shape, and toughness of base- 
balls. Still, hard loaves soaked in wine, or crushed between 
two wayside rocks, could be eaten, in a way; and as long 
as they were plentiful I could not suffer from lack of food. 

A few miles farther on, however, at each of the bakeries 
of a village I was turned away with the cry of : 

" There is no bread ! The strike ! The bakers have 
joined the strike and no more bread is made." 

To satisfy that day's appetite I had to eat " paste," a 
mushy mess of macaroni. • 

I was returning next morning from an early view of the 
picturesque bridges and the ancient buildings of Verona, 



In Sunny Italy 35 

when I came upon a howling mob, quarreling, pushing, and 
scratching in a struggle to reach the gateway leading to the 
city hall. Behind this gate above the sea of heads I could 
just see the top of some heavy instrument, and the caps of 
a squad of policemen. I asked an excited neighbor the 
cause of the squabble. He glared at me and howled some- 
thing in reply. The only word I understood was pane 
(bread). I turned to a man behind me. Before I could 
speak to him, he shoved me aside and crowded into my 
place, at the same time shouting, "Pane!" I tried to 
crowd past him. He jabbed me twice in the ribs with his 
elbows, and again roared, "Pane!" In fact, everywhere 
above the howl and noise of the multitude one word rang 
out, clear and sharp — " Pane ! pane ! pane ! " My hunger 
of the day before, and the thought of the long miles before 
me, aroused my interest in that product. I dived into the 
human whirlpool and battled my way toward the center. 

Reaching the front rank, I paused to look about me. Be- 
hind the iron gate, a dozen perspiring policemen were 
guarding several huge baskets of those baseball loaves. Be- 
yond them stood the instrument that had attracted my at- 
tention. It was a pair of wooden scales that looked big 
enough to give the weight of an ox. Still farther on, an 
officer, who seemed to feel the importance of his position, 
sat over a huge book, a pen the size of a dagger behind each 
ear, and one resembling a young bayonet in his hand. 

One by one, the citizens of Verona were pushed through 
the gate into the space where the policemen guarded the 
bread, to be halted suddenly with the shouted question, 
"Pound or two pounds?" Once weighed out, his loaves 
were passed rapidly from one to another of the officials, so 
rapidly that the citizen had to run to keep up with them. 



36 Working My Way Around the World 

When he reached the officer sitting before the big book, 
he had to pause while the latter asked him questions and 
wrote down the answers. Then he ran on until he reached 
the receiving table of another official, where he caught his 
flying loaves and made his escape. 

Almost before I had time to see how it was done, the 
pushing crowd sent me spinning through the gate. " Two 
pounds! " I shouted as I rushed on in my journey toward 
the book. In a very short time I had reached the last offi- 
cial, dropped ten soldi, gathered up my bread, and left by 
a gate that opened into an alley. 

Perhaps you think it was easy to carry two armfuls of 
baseball loaves. Take my word for it that it was no simple 
task. . A loaf rolled into the gutter before I had taken a 
dozen steps. The others tried to squirm out of my grasp. 
With both hands full, I had to disgrace myself by squat- 
ting on the pavement to fill my pockets ; and even then I 
had a hard time keeping them from jumping away from 
me. People must have taken me for a traveling juggler. 
I made up my mind that I must either give or throw some 
of those loaves away. 

He who longs to give alms in Italy has not far to look 
for some one willing to benefit by his kindness. I glanced 
down the alley, and my eyes fell on a mournful-looking beg- 
gar crouched in a gloomy doorway. With a kind-hearted 
smile, I bestowed upon him enough of my load to enable 
him to play the American national game until the season 
closed. The outcast wore a sign marked, " Deaf and 
dumb." Either he had picked up the wrong card in hur- 
rying forth to business that morning, or my generous gift 
surprised him out of his misfortune; for as long as a 



In Sunny Italy 37 

screeching voice could reach me I was flooded with more 
blessings than I could possibly have found use for. 

- 1 plodded on toward Vincenza. All that day, while I 
'sat in village inns, groups of discouraged-looking men sat 
scolding against the bakers, and watching me enviously as 
I soaked my hard-earned loaves in a glass of wine. 

When morning broke again, I decided to test the third- 
class cars of Italy to see if they were more comfortable than 
walking; so I took the train from Vincenza to Padua. At 
least, the ticket I purchased bore the name Padua, though 
the company hardly lived up to the printed agreement 
thereon. At the end of several hours of slow jolting and 
bumping, we were set down in the center of a wheat-field. 
The guard shouted, " Padua ! " It seemed to me I had 
heard somewhere that Padua boasted buildings and streets, 
like other cities. It was possible that I had not been in- 
formed correctly. But I could not rid myself of the idea, 
and I wandered out through the lonely station to ask the first 
passer-by how to get to Padua. 

"Padova!" he snorted. " Certainly this is Padova! 
Follow this road for a mile. Just before you come in sight 
of a white-washed pig-sty, turn to the left, walk straight 
ahead, and the city cannot escape you." 

I followed his directions, and in due time came to the 
city gate. 

I never saw such a sleepy town. The sun is certainly hot 
in Italy in the summer months, but I had not expected to 
find a place where the people slept all the time. The city 
seemed lost in slumber. The few horses dragged their 
vehicles after them at a snail's pace, the drivers nodding on 
their seats. Many of the shop-keepers had put up their 



38 Working My Way Around the World 

shutters and gone home to rest. Those who had not could 
with difficulty be aroused from their midday naps to attend 
to the wants of yawning customers. The very dogs slept 
in the gutters or under the chairs of their drowsy masters. 
Even many of the buildings were crumbling away and 
seemed to be falling asleep like the inhabitants. 

However, I had a chance to look at the famous statues 
and architecture in peace, and, leaving the sleepy city to 
slumber on, I set off at noonday toward Venice. Away to 
the eastward stretched land as flat and unbroken as the sea. 
Walking was not so easy, however, as it had been among 
the mountains behind, for a powerful wind from the 
Adriatic Sea pressed me back like an unseen hand at my 
breast. Although I had been certain that I would reach the 
coast town, Fusiano, before evening, twilight found me still 
plodding across barren lowlands. With the first twinkling 
star a faint glow of light appeared afar off to the left. 
Steadily it grew until it lighted up a distant corner of the 
sky, while the wind howled stronger and louder across the 
unpeopled waste. 

Night had long since settled down when the lapping of 
waves told me that I had reached the coast-line. A few 
rickety huts rose up out of the darkness; but still far out 
over the sea hovered that glow in the sky — no distant fire, 
as I had supposed, but the reflected lights of the island city, 
Venice. I had long been thinking of the cheering meal and 
the soft couch that I would have before boarding the steamer 
that would take me to the city of the sea; but I had to do 
without them. For there was no inn among the hovels of 
Fusiano. I took shelter in a shanty down on the beach, 
and waited patiently for the ten o'clock boat. 

By ten o'clock there had gathered on the crazy wharf 



In Sunny Italy 



39 



enough dark-faced people to fill the steamer. On the open 
sea the wind was wild. Now and then a wave spat in the 
faces of the passengers huddled together on the deck. A 



-'■-■>■ a -^-..'.:.,, . 




The Bridge of Sighs, so-called because it leads from the Justice Court 
in the Palace of the Doges on the left to the prison on the right. It 
crosses the Grand Canal of Venice. 

ship's officer jammed his way among us to collect the six- 
cent tickets. 

By and by the steamer stopped tossing about and began 
to glide smoothly. I pushed to the rail to peer out into the 
night. Before me I saw a stretch of smooth water in which 
twinkled the reflection of thousands of lights of smaller 



40 Working My Way Around the World 

boats, and the illuminated windows of a block of houses 
rising sheer out of the sea. We glided into port. A gon- 
dola lighted up by torches at both ends glided across our 
path. A wide canal opened on our left, and wound in and 
out among great buildings faintly lighted up by lamps and 
lanterns on the mooring-posts. It was the Grand Canal of 
Venice. The steamer nosed its way through a fleet of gon- 
dolas and tied up at a landing before a marble column. 

I went ashore and looked about me. There were no 
streets, and the hotels that faced the canals were all too ex- 
pensive for me. I did not know where to look for the poor 
man's section of the city. For two full hours I tramped 
through squares and dark, narrow alleys, only to turn up 
at last within a stone's throw of my landing-place. I finally 
spent the night outdoors, sitting on the edge of the canal. 

After spending a few days in Venice, I walked down to 
the Grand Canal one morning, with my mind made up to 
ride in a gondola. I had difficulty in attracting the atten- 
tion of the water cabman. They are not in the habit of 
asking men wearing corduroys and flannel shirts to be their 
passengers. A score of them had just recovered from a 
rush made on a tow-head wearing the regular tourist clothes. 
They did not seem to see me. When I boldly called out to 
them, they crowded around me to jeer and laugh at the la- 
borer trying to play the lord. For some time they thought 
I was joking. I had to show them my purse with money 
in it before one of them offered to take me aboard. 

Along the Grand Canal passing gondoliers, without pas- 
sengers to keep them in proper conduct, flung cutting taunts 
at my boatman. 

" Eh, Amico ! " they called out, " what 's that you 've 
got?" 



In Sunny Italy 



41 



**** 



i 





My gondolier on the Grand Canal 



" Ch'e un rico colui 
qua, eh?" (" Pretty rich 
wine that, eh ? " ) 

" Sanque della Ver- 
gine, caro mio, dove 
hai accozzato quello ? " 
('" But, my dear fellow, 
where did you pick that 
one up? ") 

But my guide finally 
lost his grin and became 
respectful, pointing out 
objects of interest with 
a face as solemn as an 
owl, and shaking his head 
sternly at his fellow boat- 
men when they began to joke. 

Fear drove me away from Venice before I had rested the 
miles from Paris out of my legs — fear that in a few days 
more the mosquitoes would finish their wicked work and 
devour me entirely. On a Sunday evening I made my 
way to the station and bought a third-class ticket to Bologna. 

Under a lowering sun our train crawled slowly into Bo- 
logna — so slowly that I was glad to get off and walk. I 
struck off along the ancient highway to Florence. The 
country was mountainous, so that when I was not climbing 
up I was climbing down. The people in this section were 
very poor, earning their living by tending cattle or by mak- 
ing wine. A few miles from the town the highway began 
to wind up among lonely mountains. Here and there a 
vineyard clung to a wrinkled hillside. At such spots tall 
cone-shaped buckets holding about two bushels each stood 



42 Working My Way Around the World 

by the roadside, some filled with grapes, others with the 
floating pulp left by the crushers. 

What kind of crusher was used I did not learn until 
nearly nightfall. Then, suddenly coming round a huge 
boulder, I stepped into a group of bare-legged women who 
were slowly treading up and down in as many buckets of 
grapes. 

Darkness overtook me when I was high among the lonely 
mountains, far from any hut or village. A half hour later 
a mountain storm burst upon me. 

For what seemed an endless length of time I plunged on. 
Then before me I noticed a faint gleam of light flickering 
through the downpour. I splashed forward, and banged 
on a door beside a window through which the light shone. 
The door was quickly opened, and I fell into a tiny wine- 
shop. Three drinkers sat in the room. They stared 
stupidly for some time while the water ran away from me 
in little rivers along the floor. Then the landlord remarked, 
with a silly grin: 

" You are all wet." 

" Also hungry," I answered. " What 's to eat? " 

" Da mangiare ! Ma ! Not a thing in the house." 

" The nearest inn? " 

" Six miles on." 

" I suppose I must go to bed supperless, then," I sighed, 
drawing my water-soaked bundle from beneath my coat. 

" Bed ! " cried the landlord. " You cannot sleep here. 
I keep no lodging-house." 

" What! " I exclaimed. " Do you think I am going on 
in this flood? " 

" I keep no lodging-house," repeated the host stubbornly. 

I sat down on a bench, determined that no three Italians 



In Sunny Italy 43 

should throw me out without a struggle. One by one, they 
came forward to try coaxing, growling, and shouting at me, 
shaking their fists in my face. I stuck stubbornly in my 
place. The landlord was ready to weep, when one of his 
countrymen drew me to the window and offered to let me 
stay in his barn across the way. I made out through the 
storm the dim outline of a building, and, catching up my 
bundle, dashed with the native across the road and into a 
stone hovel. I could feel under my feet that the floor was 
nothing but the bare ground. An American cow would 
balk at the door of the house of a mountain peasant of 
Italy; she would have fled bellowing if she had seen the in- 
side of the barn that came to view when my companion 
lighted a lantern. He pointed to a heap of corn husks in a 
corner behind the oxen and donkeys. Then, fearful of los- 
ing a moment over the wine with his fellows, he gave the 
lantern a shake that put out the light, and, leaving me in 
utter darkness, hurried away. 

I felt my way toward the husks, narrowly missed knock- 
ing down the last donkey in the row, and was about to throw 
myself down on the heap, when a man's voice at my feet 
shouted a word that I did not catch. Being in Italy, I an- 
swered in Italian : 

" Che avete? Voglio dormire qui." 

" Ach ! " groaned the voice in German. " Only an ac- 
cursed Italian." 

" Here, friend," I shouted in German, poking the form 
with my foot. " Whom are you calling accursed ? " 

The man in the husks sprang to his feet with a wild 
shout. 

" Lieber Gott ! " he shrieked, clutching at my coat and 
dancing around me. " Lieber Gott ! You understand Ger- 



44 Working My Way Around the World 

man. You are no cursed Italian. God be thanked. In 
three weeks have I heard no German." 

Even the asses were complaining by the time he had fin- 
ished shouting and settled down to tell his troubles. He 
was only another German on his Wander jahr (year of wan- 
dering), who had strayed far south in the peninsula, and, 
after losing his last copper, was struggling northward again 
as rapidly as he could on strength gained from a crust of 
bread or a few wayside berries each day. One needed only 
to touch him to know that he was as thin as a side-show 
skeleton. I offered him half of a cheese I carried in a 
pocket, and he snatched it with the hungry cry of a wolf, 
and devoured it as we burrowed deep into the husks. 

All night long the water dripped from my elbows and 
oozed out of my shoes, and a bitter mountain wind swept 
through the cracks of the building. I had just begun to 
sleep when morning broke. I rose with joints so stiff that 
I could hardly move. I pounded and rubbed them for a 
half hour before they w r ere in working order. Outside a 
cold drizzle was falling; but, bidding farewell to my com- 
panion of the night, I set out along the mountain highway. 

Two hours beyond the barn, I came upon a miserable 
group of huts crowded together on the top of a hill. 
Among them was an even more miserable inn, where I 
stopped for a bowl of thin soup in which had been drowned 
a lump of black bread. Then still hungry, I plodded on in 
the drizzle. 

A night of corn-husks had made me look more like a 
beggar than I knew. Two miles beyond the village, I 
passed a ragged road-repairer and a boy who were breaking 
stone at the wayside. Near by was a hedge weighted down 
with blackberries, to which I hastened and fell to picking 



In Sunny Italy 45 

my late dinner. The workman stared a moment, open- 
mouthed, laid aside his sledge, and mumbled something to 
the boy. The boy left his place, wandered down the road 
a short distance beyond me, and idled about as if waiting 
for someone. With a half filled cap, I set off again. The 
boy edged nearer to me as I approached, and, brushing 
against me, thrust something under my arm and ran back 
to the stone-pile. In my astonishment I dropped the gift on 
the highway. It was a quarter loaf of black bread left 
over from the ragged workman's dinner. 

The next afternoon found me looking down upon the 
city of Florence, in a vast valley where the winding Arno 
was bluish silver under the setting sun. By evening I was 
housed in the city of the poet Dante and the artist Michel- 
angelo. 

During my four days in Florence I lived with the poorest 
working class, but spent hours each day in cathedral and 
galleries. Beggars were everywhere. I paid half a franc 
a day for a good sized room, and bought my food of a 
traveling restaurant. At night there appeared at street 
corners in the unwashed section of the city men with push- 
carts laden with boiled tripe. Around them gathered 
jostling crowds, who continued pushing until the last mor- 
sel had been sold. Each customer seemed to possess but a 
single cent which he had carefully guarded through the day, 
waiting for the coming of the tripe man. Never did the 
peddler make a sale without a quarrel arising over the size 
of the morsel; and never did the buyer leave until a second 
strip about the size of a match had been added to his share 
to make up what he claimed to be the fair weight. 

I spent most of my fourth day in Florence looking at 
her works of art. Late that afternoon I decided not to 



46 Working My Way Around the World 

return to my lodging, and wandered off along the highway 
to Rome. The country was still mountainous, but the 
ranges were not so steep and there were more huts than 
to the north. When night settled down, I could see before 
me a country inn on a hilltop. 

I wandered on, reached the inn, went inside, and sat 
down. At first the groups of men seated before the fire- 
place and around the table scarcely looked my way. When 
I began to speak, however, they turned to stare, and began 
nodding and glancing at one another as if they said: 

" Now where do you suppose he comes from? " 

I did not offer to tell them, though they squirmed with 
curiosity. Finally one of them, clearing his throat, hinted 
timidly : 

" Hem, ah — you are a German, perhaps? " 

" No." 

The speaker rubbed his neck with a horny hand and 
turned awkwardly to look at his fellows. 

" Hah, you are an Austrian! " charged another, with a 
scowl. 

" No." 

" Swiss ? " suggested a third. 
,< "No." 

They began to show greater interest. A traveler from 
any but these three countries is something to attract un- 
usual "attention in the country inns of Italy. 

"Ah!" tried a fourth member of the group. "You 
are a Frenchman? " 

" No." 

The geographical knowledge of the party was used up. 
There followed a long wrinkled-browed silence. The land- 
landy wandered in with a pot, looked me over out of a 



In Sunny Italy 47 

corner of her eye, and left slowly. The silence grew in- 
tense. A native opened his mouth twice or thrice, swal- 
lowed his breath with a gulp, and purred with a fright- 
ened air: 

" Er, well — what country does the signore come from ? " 

" From America." 

A chorus of exclamations woke the cat dozing under the 
fireplace. The hostess ran in, open-mouthed, from the back 
room. The landlord dropped his pipe and exclaimed 
"Ma!" in astonishment. The slowest of the party left 
their games and stories and crowded closely around me. 

One man began telling what he knew of America. 
Among other things, he said the railway trains of America 
run high up in the air above the houses. When the others 
did not seem to believe it, he tried to prove it by shouting 
at them. He said he had read about it in a newspaper. 
Then he mentioned " Nuova York," and asked me if it 
were not also true that its buildings were higher than the 
steeple of the village church, and whether the railroads 
were not built high to enable the people to get into such 
high houses. He seemed to think that Americans never 
come down to earth. When he gave me a chance to speak, I 
explained that what he had read was about the New York 
Elevated and not about the railways of the whole country. 

Moreover, " Nuova York " meant America to the whole 
party. Not a man of them knew that there were two 
Americas ; not one had ever heard the term " United States." 
Many country people of Italy think of America as a land 
somewhere far away, — how far or in what direction they 
have no idea, — where wages are higher than in Italy. 
Countless times questions like these were asked : 

" Is America farther away than Switzerland?" 



48 Working My Way Around the World 

"Did you walk all the way from America?" 

" Who is king of America? " 

" Why ! Are you a native American ? I thought Ameri- 
cans were black ! " 

Finally a woman added insult to injury by asking: 

" In America you worship the sun, non e vero?" 

One evening, at a country inn, I remarked that the United 
States as a whole is as large, if not larger, than Italy. My 
hearers w 7 ere deafening me with shouts of scorn and disbe- 
lief when a newxomer of the party came to my assistance. 

" Certainly that is right ! " he cried. " It is larger. I 
have a brother in Buenos Ay res, and I know. America, or 
the United States, as this signore chooses to call it, has 
states just like Italy. The states are Brazil, Uruguay, Re- 
publica Argentina, and Nuova York." 

The roadway between Florence and Siena winds through 
splendid scenery and over mountains, from the top of which 
I had a complete view in every direction of the surrounding 
hills and valleys. But I had little chance to admire the 
scenery, for again and again I had to jump aside and vault 
over roadside hedges before a team of oxen driven round 
a hill. These oxen had horns that measured at least six and 
even seven feet from tip to tip, so when I met two of them 
yoked together there was n't much room left for me. 
Moreover, their drivers were frequently sound asleep, and 
the animals wandered this way and that as they pleased 
all over the highway, tossing their horns toward me. As 
I met them at almost every quarter mile, I had to be watch- 
ful and quick. 

I came upon Siena at last. Before me lay a broad, fer- 
tile valley with a rocky hill rising from the center of it. 
The houses were scattered over the hill, some of them on 



In Sunny Italy 49 

the very top, others clinging to the sides as if fearful of 
falling to the bottom into the valley itself. It was another 
of those up-and-down towns whose streets should be fitted 
with ladders; where every householder is in danger, every 
time he steps out of doors, of falling into the next block, 
should he by any chance lose his hold on the front of his 







1 



%m+j',; ■■■■■>■&;■:. ■ ^S^K 

' " : "H ,.,,.:,:''" " ',:.'?-»-. "::"»;;■:. .■>.■;■".:: \?\'-:- ^M>Ht-^-S"i 

A country family returning from market. The grape casks being empty 
the boys do not need to walk home 

dwelling. I managed to climb into the city without actu- 
ally crawling on my hands and knees ; but more than once 
I kept my place only by clutching at the nearest building. 
Two days after leaving Siena I was tramping along a 
highway that wound over low mountains, between whisper- 
ing forests, in utter loneliness. Where the woods ended 
stretched many another weary mile, with never a hut by the 
wayside. Now and then I came upon a shepherd clad in 
sheepskins, sitting among his flocks on. a hillside. 



50 Working My Way Around the World 

The sun sank while I was plodding through an endless 
marsh. All about me were the whispering of great fields 
of reeds and grasses, and the dismal croaking of countless 
frogs. Twilight faded to black night. Far away before 
me the lights of Rome brightened the sky; yet hours of 
tramping seemed to bring them not a yard nearer. 

Forty-one miles had I covered, when three hovels rose 
up by the wayside. One was a wine-shop. I went inside 
and found it filled with traveling teamsters. One of them 
offered me a bed on his load of straw in the stable. 

He rose at daybreak and drove off, and at that early hour 
I started once more on my way to Rome. The lonely road 
led across a windy marsh, rounded a low hill, and brought 
me face to face with the ancient city that was once the cen- 
ter of the civilized world. 

To the right and left, on low hills, stood large buildings 
like those in American cities. From these buildings a mass 
of houses sloped down the hills and covered the broad val- 
leys between them. The Tiber River wound its way among 
the dull gray dwellings. Here and there a dome shone 
brightly in the morning sunshine. But, towering high 
above all, dwarfing everything else, stood the vast dome of 
St. Peter's. 

As I looked I thought of how, hundreds of years ago, 
people had caught their first glimpse of Rome from this 
very hilltop. Before the days of railroads, travelers had 
come by this same road, millions of them on foot, and en- 
tered the city by this same massive western gateway. I 
watched the steady stream of peasants, on wagons, carts, 
donkeys, and afoot, pouring through this same entrance; 
while officers stood there, running long slim swords through 
bales and baskets of farm produce. Finally I joined the 



In Sunny Italy 51 

noisy, surging crowd, and was swept within the walls. 

I spent nearly a week wandering through St. Peter's, the 
Vatican Art galleries, and among the chapels, ruins, and 
ancient monuments of Rome. Then I turned southward 
again on the road to Naples. For three days the route 
led through a territory packed with ragged, half -starved 
people, who toiled constantly from the first peep of the sun 
to the last waver of twilight, and crawled away into some 
hole during the hours of darkness. They were not much 
like the people of northern Italy. Shopkeepers snarled at 
their customers, false coins of the smallest sort made their 
appearance, and had I not looked so much like the natives 
themselves I should certainly have won the attention of 
those w T ho lived by violence. 

In this section the language changed rapidly. The tongue 
spoken in Florence and Siena was almost foreign here. A 
word learned in one village was not understood in another 
a half day distant. The villages w r ere perched at the sum- 
mits of the steepest hills, up which each day's walk ended 
with a weary climb by steep paths of stones that rolled un- 
der my feet. 

For three nights after leaving Rome I had to sleep out 
of doors. On my fourth day I found lodging at the way- 
side, in a building that was one fourth inn and three 
fourths stable. The keeper, his wife, and their many chil- 
dren all were barefooted. The father sat on a stool, bounc- 
ing the baby up and down on his broad feet. Another child 
squatted on top of the four-legged board that served as a 
table, and in a fit of bash fulness thrust his fingers into his 
mouth. 

1 You have lodgings for travelers? " I inquired. 

' Yes," growled the owner. 



52 Working My Way Around the World 

" How much for bed? " 

" Two cents." 

I demanded to see the lodging that could be had at such 
a price. 

" Giovanni," bawled the head of the house, " bring in 
the bed!" 

A moth-eaten youth flung open the back door, and threw 
at my feet a dirty grain-sack filled with crumpled straw 
that peeped out here and there. 

After I had rested awhile, the father bawled once more 
to his son, and motioned to me to take up my bed and walk. 
I followed the youth out to the stable, picking my way by 
the light of the feeble torch he carried. Giovanni waded 
inside, pointed out to me a long, narrow manger of slats, 
and fled, leaving me alone with the problem of how to rest 
nearly six feet of body on three feet of stuffed grain-sack. 
I tried every way I could think of, but decided at last to 
sleep on the bare slats and use the sack as a pillow. 

I had just begun to doze, when an outer door opened and 
let in a great draft of night air, closely followed by a flock 
of sheep that quickly filled the stable to overflowing. Some 
of the animals tried to overflow into the manger, sprang 
back when they found me in it, and made their discovery 
known to their companions by several long " b-a-a-s." 
The news awakened a truly Italian curiosity. The sheep 
started a procession, and the whole band filed by the manger, 
every animal poking its nose through the slats for a sniff. 
This over, each of the flock expressed its opinion of my 
presence in trembling, nerve-racking bleats. They kept 
this up until the youth came to tell me that it was morning, 
and carried off my bed, fearful, no doubt, that I would run 
off with that valuable piece of property. 



In Sunny Italy 



53 



In spite of bruises and aches, I plodded on at a good pace, 
hoping by this early start to reach Naples before the day 
was done. But I was still in the country when the gloom, 




? 




Italian peasants returning from the vineyards to the village 

settling down like a fog, drove into the highway bands of 
weary people and four-footed beasts, toiling homeward 
from their day's work. The route led downward. The 
fields between tumble-down villages grew shorter and 
shorter until they disappeared entirely, and I found myself 
between an unbroken row of stone houses. The bands of 
home-going peasants increased to a crowd, through which 
I struggled to make my way. 

It was impossible to stop long enough to look about me. 
I finally cornered a workman and asked how to get to 
Naples. 



54 Working My Way Around the World 

" Napoli! Ma! This is Napoli! " he bellowed, shoving 
me aside. 

I plunged on, certain that the road must lead to the har- 
bor and its sailors' lodgings. Ragged, cross-looking la- 
borers swept against me. Donkeys, with and without loads, 
braved when their masters struck them. Heavy ox-carts, 
massive wagons, here and there a horseman, fought their 
way up the hill amid shrill shouts, roaring oaths, scream- 
ing yeehawing of asses, the rumble of wheels on cobble- 
stones, the snap of whips, the whack of heavy sticks. I 
moved along with the bawling multitude before and behind 
me, and a long time afterward reached level streets, and 
was dragged into a miserable lodging-house by a boarding- 
house runner. 

In Naples the business people do not wait for you to come 
into the shop to ask for what you want. They come out to 
the street after you, or send their runners out to invite you 
in. The barber walks up and down the street, watching for 
men who need a shave ; the merchant stands before his door 
and shouts and beckons to the passing crowd to come in 
and see his goods ; the ticket agent tramps up and down the 
wharves, trying to sell a ticket to everyone who passes; and 
the boarding-house runners are everywhere, looking for the 
stranger within the city who has not yet found a lodging- 
place. 

I spent a few days in Naples, then went to Marseilles, 
where 1 lived a month, tramping sorrowfully up and down 
the break-w r ater waiting for a chance to get work on some 
ship eastward bound. On the last day of November my 
luck changed. The Warwickshire, an English steamer sail- 
ing to Burma, put in at Marseilles and sent out a call for a 
sailor. I was the first man on board, showed them my dis- 



In Sunny Italy 55 

charge from the cattle-boat, and was " signed on " at once. 
The next day I watched the familiar harbor of Marseilles 
grow smaller and smaller until it faded away on the distant 
sky-line. 



CHAPTER VIII 

AMONG THE ARABS 

On a peaceful sea the Warwickshire sped eastward. My 
work was " polishin' 'er brasses," and I can say without 
boasting that the ship was brighter because I was there. 

On the morning of the fifth day out, I was ordered into 
the hold to send up the trunks of Egyptian travelers. When 
I climbed on deck after the last chest, the deep blue of the 
sea had turned to a shabby brown, but there was no land in 
sight. Suddenly there rose from the sea a flat-topped 
building, then another and another, until a whole village 
lay spread out on the water before us. The houses ap- 
peared to sit like gulls on the ruddy sea. It was Port Said. 
Beyond the town we could see a stretch of reddish desert 
sand. Slowly the Warwickshire nosed her way into the 
canal, the anchor ran out with a rattle and roar, and there 
swarmed upon our decks a multitude of strange-looking 
people who seemed to belong to another world. 

Darkness soon fell. I had signed on the Warwickshire 
under a promise that I might leave her at Port Said. 
Through all the voyage, however, my shipmates had spent 
the hours of the dog-watch telling me tales of the horrors 
that had befallen white men who became penniless among 
the Arabs. Perhaps my shipmates spoke truly. It seemed 
as if they might have done so as I sat gazing off into the 
blackest of nights, listening to the shrieks that rose from the 
maze of buildings ashore, and the snarling, scowling mobs 
that raced about our decks. Perhaps I should be murdered 

56 



Among the Arabs 57 

if I ventured ashore among these black tribes. Or, if I 
escaped murder, I might be left to die of starvation on this 
neck of sand. 

The captain had given me leave to go on to Rangoon. 
An Englishman, who was returning to the Burmese district 
he governed, had promised me a position with good pay. 
It seemed foolhardy to halt in this land of rascals, when in 
a few days I might complete half my journey around the 
globe and find ready employment. 

For an hour I sat staring into the black night, trying to 
decide whether to risk going ashore or to go on with the 
ship. I finally decided that I must see Palestine and 
Egypt, countries I had read much of in the Bible. They 
were lands too famous to be lightly passed by. I bade fare- 
well to my astonished shipmates, collected my few days' 
wages, and, with about nine dollars in my pocket, dropped 
into a boat and was rowed ashore. 

At the landing I paid the dusky boatman the regular fare 
— the amount was posted in plain sight on the wharf. But 
he was not satisfied. For an hour he dogged my footsteps, 
howling threats or whining in a high-pitched voice, now in 
his native Arabic, now in such English as he could put to- 
gether. But I shook him off at last, and set out to find a 
lodging. 

It was not an easy thing to do. To be sure, I passed sev- 
eral hotels before which well dressed men lounged at little 
tables, and barefooted black waiters flitted back and forth 
carrying cool drinks. But to stop at such a hotel would 
take more money than I had had for some time. There 
must have been dozens of native inns among the maze of 
hovels into which I plunged at the first step off the avenue. 
But how could I tell where they were, when the only signs 



58 Working My Way Around the World 

I could see were as meaningless to me as so many spatters 
of ink? Even in Holland I had been able to guess at shop 
names. But Arabic ! I had not the least idea whether the 
signs I saw announced a lodging-house or the quarters of 
an undertaker! A long evening I pattered in and out of 
crooked byways, bumping now and then into a dark Arab 
who snarled at me and made off, and bringing up here and 
there in some dismal blind alley. Fearful of wandering 
too far from the lighted square, I turned back toward the 
harbor. Suddenly I caught sight of a sign in English: 
" Catholic Sailors' Home." I dashed joyfully toward it. 

The Home was little more than a small reading-room. 
Half hidden behind the stacks of ragged magazines, sat the 
" manager," a Maltese boy, huddled over paper and pencil 
and staring in a discouraged manner at an Italian-English 
grammar. I stepped forward and offered to help him, and 
together we waded through a very long lesson. Before 
we had ended, six tattered white men wandered in and care- 
fully chose books over which to fall asleep. 

" You must know," said the young manager, as he closed 
the grammar, " that there am no sleepings here. And we 
closes at eleven. But I am fix you oop. I am shelter all 
these seamens, while I lose my place when the Catholic so- 
ciety found it out." 

He peered out into the night and locked the doors. 
Then he blew out the lights and awoke the sleepers. We 
groped our way through a long stone-paved passageway to 
the back of the building. 

" You are getting in here," said the Maltese, pulling 
open what appeared to be a heavy pair of shutters ; " but 
be quietness." 

I climbed through after the others. A companion struck 



Among the Arabs 59 

a match that lighted up a stone room, once the kitchen of 
the Home. Closely packed though we were, it soon grew 
icy cold on the stone floor. Two of the ragged men rose 
with cries of disgust, and crawled out through the window 
to tramp up and down the hall. I felt my way to a coffin- 
shaped cupboard in one corner, laid it lengthwise on the 
floor, pulled out the shelves, and, crawling inside,' closed the 
doors above me. My sleep was unbroken until morning. 

On my second afternoon in Port Said, one of my room- 
mates at the Home — an Austrian — wandered with me out 
to the break-water. We lay stretched out, watching the 
coming and going of the pilot-boats and the sparkle of the 
canal, that narrowed to a thread far away on the yellow 
desert. 

A portly Greek approached, and asked in Italian if we 
.wanted work. We did, of course. We followed him back 
to land and along the beach until we came to a hut in the 
native part of the city. On the earth floor sat two wide- 
mouthed stone vessels. The Greek motioned to us to seat 
ourselves before them, poured into them some kind of 
small nut, and handed each of us a stone pestle. When 
we had fallen to work pounding the nuts, he sat down on a 
stool, prepared his water-bottle pipe, and, except for a wave 
of the hand now and then as a signal to us to empty the 
vessels of the beaten mass and refill them, remained utterly 
motionless for the rest of the day. 

Like machines w 7 e pounded hour after hour. The pestles 
were heavy when we began; before the day was over mine 
weighed at least a ton. What we were beating up, and 
what we were beating it up for, I do not know to this day. 
The Austrian said that he knew the use of the product, but 
fell strangely silent when I asked him to explain. Night 



60 Working My Way Around the World 

sounds were drifting in through the door of the hut when 
the Greek signed to us to stop. Then he handed each of 
us five small piasters (12^ cents). We hurried away 
across the beach to a native shop where mutton sold cheaply. 

Two days later I took a " deck-passage " for Beirut, and 
boarded an old ship flying the English flag. A crowd of 
Arabs, Turks, and Syrians, Christians and Mohammedans, 
men and women, squatted on the half -covered deck. In 
one place were piled a half hundred wooden gratings. 
What these were for was a mystery to me until my fellow 
passengers fell to pulling them down, one by one, and 
spreading their bed-clothes on them ! I was the only one of 
all the multitude without bedding; even the lean, gaunt Bed- 
ouins, dressed in tattered filth, had each a roll of ragged 
blankets in which, after saying their evening prayers with 
many bowings toward the city of Mecca, they rolled them- 
selves and lay down together. When I stretched out on a 
bare grating,' the entire throng was lying huddled in a dozen 
separate groups. 

Morning broke bright and clear. Far off to the right 
rose the snow-capped range of the Lebanon Mountains. 
I strolled anxiously about the deck. In a group of Turks I 
came upon two who spoke French. I began to talk with 
them, chiefly because I wanted to ask them questions. I told 
them a few of my experiences on the highways of Europe. 
These stories amused them greatly. Then I spoke of my 
intention of walking to Damascus. They shouted with 
astonishment. It was plain that some of them did not be- 
lieve me. 

" What! " cried one of the French-speaking Turks, wav- 
ing a flabby hand toward the snow-banks that covered the 
wall-like range of mountains. " Go to Damascus on foot! 



Among the Arabs 61 

Impossible! You would be buried in the snow. This 
country is not like Europe! There are thousands of mur- 
derous Bedouins between here and Damascus who would 
glory in cutting the throat of a dog of an unbeliever ! Why, 
I have lived years in Beirut, and no man of my acquaint- 
ance, native or Frank [European], would ever undertake 
such a journey on foot." 

"And you would lose your way and die in the snow," 
put in the other. 

Throughout the morning the pair were kept busy trans- 
lating for me what the others of the group said about the 
absolute foolishness of such an undertaking. It was a 
story I heard again and again while traveling in the Far 
East ; but it was new to me then, and as I ran my eye along 
the snow-hooded w T all that faded into hazy distance to the 
north and south, I half believed it. 

The coast-line drew nearer. On the plain at the foot 
of the mountains I could see here and there well cultivated 
patches between dreary stretches of blood-red sand. A few 
minutes later we dropped anchor well out in the harbor of 
Beirut. Down the gangway tumbled a mighty landslide of 
Asiatics, men and women, large and small, dirty and half 
dirty, pushing, kicking, scratching and biting one another, 
hopelessly entangled with bundles of every thinkable shape. 
Shouting boatmen rowed us ashore. As we swung in 
against the rock, I caught a proud-looking Bedouin trying to 
separate me from my knapsack. A well directed push 
landed him in the laps of several heavily veiled women, 
and I sprang up a stairway cut in the face of the rock. 

The city itself was miles away from the landing-place. 
One of the officials called an evil-looking native, clothed in 
a single garment that reached to his knees, and ordered him 



62 Working My Way Around the World 

to guide me to the town. We set off through the night, 
heavy with the smell of oranges, along a narrow road six 
inches deep in the softest mud. On the outskirts of the city 
the native halted and began talking to me in Arabic. I 
shook my head. He seemed to think that I was unable to 
understand him because of some fault in my hearing. So 
he asked the question again and again, louder and more 
rapidly each time he repeated it. I let him shout until 
breath failed him and he gave up and splashed on. He 
halted once more, in a square reeking with mud in the cen- 
ter of the city, and burst forth excitedly in a jumble of 
words more difficult to understand than before. 

" Ingleesee? " he shrieked, with his last gasp. 

" No," I answered, understanding this one word ; 
" Americano." 

"Ha!" shouted the Arab. "Americano?" And once 
more he began his shouting. He seemed to be trying to ex- 
plain something about my fellow countrymen, for he re- 
peated the word " Americano " again and again. Once 
more he gave up trying to make me understand and struck 
off to the southward. I shouted " hotel " and " inn " in 
every language I could call to mind ; but, after a few mum- 
bles, he fell silent, and only the splash of our feet in the 
muddy roadway could be heard. 

We left the city behind, but still the Arab plodded steadily 
and silently southward. Many a story of white men led 
into Arabic traps passed through my mind. Far out among 
the orange groves beyond the city, he turned into a small 
garden, and pointed to a lighted sign above the door of a 
building among the trees. It was the home of the Ameri- 
can consul. Not knowing what else to do with a Frank 
who did not understand the loudest Arabic, the native had 



Among the Arabs 63 

led me to the only man in Beirut whom he had heard called 
' k Americano." 

When I had paid my bill next morning at the French inn 
to which I had been sent, I stepped into the office of that 
great tourist agency, Cook & Son, and exchanged a sover- 
eign for so many iron and tin coins that I could hardly carry 
them. Then I ate a native breakfast, and, strolling down 
to the harbor, sat on a pier. 

For a time the uproar made by shrieking Arabs, braying 
camels, and the rattle of ships discharging their freight, 
drowned all other sounds. Then suddenly I caught faintly 
a shout in English behind me, and turned around. A lean 
native in European dress and fez cap was beckoning to me 
from the opening of one of the narrow streets. I dropped 
from the pier and turned shoreward. The native ran to- 
ward me. "You speak Eengleesh?" he cried. "Yes? 
No? What countryman you? " 

" American." 

" No? Not American? " shrieked the native, dancing up 
and down. " You not American ? Ha ! ha ! ver' fine. I 
American one time, too. I be one time sailor on American 
warsheep Brooklyn. You write Engleesh too? No? 
Yes? Ver' fine! You like job? I got letters write in 
Engleesh ! Come, you ! " 

He led the way through the swarming streets, shouting 
answers to the questions I asked him. He said his name 
was Abdul Razac Bundak and his business that of " bum- 
boat man." That is to say, he sold supplies to ships, acted 
as guide for officers ashore, led tourists on sight-seeing 
trips, and in the busy season ran a sailors' boarding-house. 

Some distance back from the harbor, m a shoe-shop kept 
by his uncle, I sat down to write three letters for him. By 



64 Working My Way Around the World 

the time these were finished he had discovered that I knew 
other languages, and I wrote three more, two in French and 
one in Spanish. They were business letters to ship cap- 
tains who often put in at Beirut. The bumboat man paid 
me two unknown coins and invited me to dinner in a neigh- 
boring shop. 

In the days that followed, our " company/' as Abdul 
called it, was the busiest in Beirut. I wrote many letters 
for him and for other Arabs in the city who had heard of 
me. Had those men been less indolent they might have 
doubled their business. But they did not like to hurry. 
Again and again, while telling me what to write, they would 
drift away into the land of dreams with a sentence left half 
finished on their lips. The palm of the left hand was the 
writing-desk, and it was always with difficulty that I stirred 
them up to clear a space on their littered stands. I did 
not get much pay for this work; but I added something 
each day to the scrap iron in my pocket. 

When business was slow, Abdul could think of nothing 
better to do than to eat and drink. Let his cigarette burn 
out, and he rose with a yawn, and we rambled away through 
the windings of the bazaars to some tiny tavern. The keep- 
ers were always delighted to be awakened from their dreams 
by our " company." While we sat on a log or an upturned 
basket and sipped a glass of some native drink, Abdul spun 
long tales of the faranchee world. Some of these stories 
could not have been true ; but, with a live faranchee to serve 
as illustration, the shop-keepers were satisfied and listened 
open-mouthed. 

With every drink the keeper served a half dozen tiny 
dishes of hazelnuts, radishes, peas in the pod, cold squares 
of boiled potatoes, berries, and vegetables known only in 



Among the Arabs 65 

Arabia. But Abdul was gifted with an unfailing appetite, 
and at least once after every business deal he led the way to 
one of the many eating-shops facing the busiest streets and 
squares. In a gloomy, cavelike shop, the front of which 
was all door, stood two long, rough tables, with long, rough 
benches beside them. The proprietor sat near the entrance 
behind a great block of brick and mortar over which sim- 
mered a score of black kettles. I read the bill of fare by 
raising the cover of each kettle in turn, chose a dish that 
seemed less mysterious than the rest, picked up a large 
ring-shaped loaf and a bottle of water from a bench, and 
withdrew to the back of the shop. Whatever I chose, it 
was almost certain to contain mutton. The Arabian cook, 
however, sets nothing over the fire until he has cut it into 
small pieces. Each dinner was a stew of some kind, of 
differing tastes and colors. 

Abdul did not often concern himself with the contents 
of the kettles, for his prime favorite was a dish prepared 
by running a row of tiny cubes of liver and kidneys on an 
iron bar, and turning them over and over above glowing 
coals. I too should have ordered this delicacy more often, 
had not Abdul, with his incurable " Eengleesh," persisted 
in calling it " kittens." 

With all its mud and careless disorder, there was some- 
thing very pleasing about this corner of the Arab world : 
the lazy droning of its shop-keepers, the roll of the incom- 
ing sea, the twitter of birds that spoke of summer and 
seemed to contradict the calendar — above all, the pictur- 
esque orange trees bending under the ripening fruit that 
perfumed the soft air, with the snow-drifts almost within 
stone's throw on the peaks above. 

For all that, I should not have remained so long in Beirut 



66 Working My Way Around the World 

by choice, for the road was long before me, and I had 
planned to cover a certain part of it each day. But my 
friends in the East could not understand why I was anxious 
to go at once. " To-morrow is as good as to-day ; wait un- 
til to-morrow," they would say, when some small matter 
had kept me from starting on the day I had planned. But 
when to-morrow came, they repeated the same words. 
They could not understand my hurry. 

There was no one in Beirut who could tell me which 
road led to Damascus. Abdul threw up his hands in hor- 
ror when I spoke to him of my intended journey. " Im- 
possible ! " he shrieked. " There is not road. You be froze 
in the snow before the Bedouins cut your liver. You no 
can go. Business good. Damascus no good. Ver' col' 
in Damascus now." 

One afternoon, however, while in unusually good spirits, 
he admitted that there was a road leading to Damascus, 
and that caravans had been known to pass over it. But 
even then he insisted that the journey could not be made on 
foot. 

The bumboat man left me next morning just outside the 
city, and a bend in the road soon hid him from view. For 
an hour the highway was perfectly level. On each side 
were rich gardens and orange groves, thronged with dusky 
men and women clad in flowing sheets. Soon all this 
changed. The road wound upward, the delicate orange 
tree gave place to the sturdy olive, instead of fertile gar- 
dens there were now rocky hillsides all about, and the 
only persons to be seen were now and then an Arab, grim 
and scowling, leading or riding a swaying camel. 

The way. was lonely and silent. A rising wind sighed 
mournfully through the gullies and trees. The summer 






Among the Arabs 67 

breeze of the sea-level turned chilly. I hunted until I found 
the sunny side of a large rock before attempting to eat the 
lunch in my knapsack. Farther up the cedar forests began. 
Here and there groups of peasants were digging on the 
wayside slopes. To the north and south I could see flat- 
roofed villages clinging to mountain-sides. 

How strange and foreign seemed everything about me! 
The dress and tools of the peasants, the food in my knap- 
sack, everything was so different from the world I had 
lived in. If I spoke to those I met, they answered back in 
a strange jumble of words, wound the folds of their queer 
garments about them, and hurried on. If I caught sight 
of a village clock, its hands pointed to six when the hour 
was noon. Even the familiar name of the famous city 
to which I was bound was meaningless to the natives, for 
they called it " Shaam." 

My pronunciation of the word must have been at fault; 
for, though I stood long at a fork in the road in the early 
forenoon, shouting " Shaam " at each passer-by, I took the 
wrong branch at last. I tramped for some hours along a 
rapidly disappearing highway before I suspected my mis- 
take. Even then I kept on, for I was not certain that I 
was going in the wrong direction. At last the route led 
forth from a cutting in the hills, and the shimmering sea 
almost at my feet showed me that I was marching due south- 
ward. 

Two peasants appeared above a rise of ground beyond. 
As they drew near I pointed off down the road and shouted, 
" Shaam? " The pair halted wonderingly in the center of 
the highway some distance from me. " Shaam! Shaam! 
Shaam ! " I repeated, striving to give the word a pronuncia- 
tion that they could understand. The peasants stared open- 



68 Working My Way Around the World 

mouthed, drew back several paces, and peered down the 
road and back at me a dozen times, as if they were not sure 
whether I was calling their attention to some wonder of na- 
ture, or trying to get them to turn around long enough to 
pick their pockets. Then a slow, half-hearted smile broke 
out on the features of the quicker- witted. He stood first 
on one leg, then on the other, squinted along the highway 
once more, and began to repeat after me : " Shaam ! 
Shaam ! Shaam ! " 

" Aywa, Shaam ! " I cried. 

He turned to his companion. They talked together so 
long that I thought they had forgotten me. Then both be- 
gan to shake their heads so forcibly that the muscles of their 
necks stood out like steel cords. Two broad grins 
wrinkled their leathery faces. They stretched out their 
arms to the southward and burst forth in unmusical duet: 
" La ! la ! la ! la ! la ! Shaam ! La ! la ! la ! la ! la ! " The Arab 
says " la " when he means " no." I turned around and 
hurried back the way I had come. 

Dusk was falling when I came a second time to a two-row 
village facing the highway. As I expected, there was not 
an inn, or anything like one, in the place. I had seen 
enough of the Arabian, however, to know that he has his 
share of curiosity. So I sat down on a large rock at the 
end of the village. 

In three minutes a small crowd had collected. In ten, 
half the population was swarming around me and roaring 
at my useless effort to make myself understood. They 
stood about me, grinning and chattering, for a good half 
hour before one of the band motioned to me to follow him, 
and turned back into the village. The crowd followed me, 
closely examining every part of my clothing, grinning, 



Among the Arabs 69 

smirking, running from one side to the other, lest they lose 
some point in the make-up of so strange a creature, and 
babbling the while like an army of apes. 

The leader turned off the highway toward the largest 
building in the village. Ten yards from the door, he 
halted. The crowd formed a half circle, leaving me in 
the center, and then one and all began to shout something 
at the top of their lungs. 

A girl of some sixteen years appeared at the door. 
" Taala hena!" ("Come here!") roared the chorus. 
The girl ran down the steps. A roar as of an angry sea 
burst forth, as every member of the company stretched out 
an arm toward me. Plainly each was determined that 
he, and not his neighbor, should be the one to introduce 
this strange being. 

" Sprechen Sie Deutsch ? " (" Do you speak German ? " ) 
shrieked the girl in my ear. 

" Ja wohl." (" Yes, indeed "), I answered. 

The rabble fell utterly silent at the first word, and I asked 
to be directed to an inn. 

" There is no hotel in our city of Bhamdoon," replied 
the girl, with flashing eyes. " We should be insulted. In 
this house with my family lives a German missionary lady. 
You must stop here." 

She led the way to the door. The missionary met me 
on the steps with a cry of delight. She explained that 
she had not seen a European in many months. 

"What would supper and lodging cost me here?" 
Luckily, the German lady was hard of hearing. The girl 
gave me a quick glance, half scornful, half astonished, 
which reminded me that such a question is an insult in the 
land of Arabs. 



70 Working My Way Around the World 

' The lady is busy now," said the girl. " Come and visit 
my family." She led the way along a hall and threw open 
a door. I pulled off my cap. 

" Keep it on," said my guide, " and leave your shoes 
there." 

She stepped out of her own loose slippers and into the 
room. It was square and low. The stone floor was half 
covered with mats and cushions. In the center glowed a 
small sheet-iron stove; and around three of the walls ran 
a long cushioned seat. Two men, two women, and sev- 
eral children were seated in a half circle on the floor, their 
legs folded under them. They rose without a word as 
I entered. The girl placed a cushion for me on the floor. 
The family sat down again and carefully and slowly folded 
their legs as before. Then, after they were firmly seated, 
one and all in turn, according to age, cried " Lailtak 
saeedee " (Good evening). 

In the center of the group were three large bowls, one of 
lentils and another of chopped-up potatoes in oil. A third 
contained a delicacy made of sour milk, half soup and half 
pudding, that is a great favorite among the Arabs. On the 
floor, beside each member of the family, lay several sheets 
of bread, half a yard wide and as thin as cardboard. The 
head of the house pushed the bowls toward me, ordered a 
stack of bread to be placed beside my cushion, and motioned 
me to eat. I stared helplessly at the bowls, for there was 
neither knife, fork, nor spoon in sight. The girl, however, 
knowing the ways of faranchees from years in a mission 
school in Beirut, explained my difficulty to her father. He 
cast a scornful look at me, begged my pardon, through his 
daughter, for being so impolite as to eat a morsel before his 
guest had begun, tore a few inches from a bread-sheet, and, 



Among the Arabs 71 

folding it between his fingers, picked up a pinch of lentils 
and ate. I lost no time in following his example. 

A wonderful invention is this Arab bread. If one buys 
food in a native bazaar, it is wrapped in a bread-sheet, and 
a very good wrapper it is, for it requires a good grip and a 
fair pair of muscles to tear it. A bread-sheet takes the 
place of many dishes. It makes a splendid cover for pots 
and pans ; it does well as a waiter's tray. Never have I seen 
it used to cover roofs, nor as shaving paper ; but, then, the 
Arab is slow and he may not have thought of making use 
of it in those ways yet. As an article of food, however, this 
bread is not an entire success. The taste is not unpleasant, 
but ten minutes' chewing makes far less impression on it 
than on a rubber mat. The bread I ate that night must 
have been very old, for it would fall into pieces when I used 
it as a spoon. My host picked up one of my sheets, held it 
against the glowing stove with the flat of his hand, and re- 
turned it. It bent as easily as cloth and was much more 
agreeable to the taste than before. 

The younger man rolled cigarettes for himself and his 
father. They asked me questions, which the girl repeated 
to me in German. She was about to tell them my answers, 
when there came a tap at the door and a few words in Arabic 
that caused the family to jump hurriedly to their feet. 
" Sheik ! sheik ! " they whispered excitedly. The children 
were whisked into one corner. 

The door was flung open, and there entered the room an 
under-sized man of about sixty. Long, flowing robes en- 
veloped his form, a turban-wound fez perched almost mer- 
rily on his head, and his feet were bare, for he had dropped 
his slippers at the door. His face, deeply wrinkled, with a 
long scar across one cheek, was browned and weather- 



72 Working My Way Around the World 

beaten by the wild storms that sometimes rage over the 
Lebanon. 

The sheik greeted the head of the family, took a seat near 
me on the divan, bowed low to each person present, bowed 
again when they each returned his greeting, and then with 
a wave of his hand invited them to be seated. The new- 
comer had quite plainly been attracted to the house because 
he had heard that a faranchec was visiting the family. He 
was asking questions about me, as I could tell by his gestures 
and the few words I understood. The family began 
eagerly explaining and telling him how they supposed I hap- 
pened to be in that part of the world. For a time the sheik 
listened without showing the least surprise. He sat there 
puffing at a cigarette as quietly as if it were nothing new 
to have faranchces wander into his town on foot at night. 

At the end of his story, however, the head of the house 
remarked that I was on my way to " Shaam " on foot. 
This news was as astonishing as he could have wished. 
The sheik fairly bounded into the air, threw his cigarette at 
the open stove, and burst forth excitedly. The girl ex- 
plained his words. He said it was " impossible," it 
" could n't be done " ; and at the close of his speech he de- 
clared that, as village mayor or sheik, he would not permit 
me to continue on such a foolhardy undertaking. How 
many weapons did I carry ? None? What — no weapon? 
Travel to far-off Damascus without being armed? Why, 
his own villagers never ventured along the highway to the 
nearest towns without their guns! he would not hear of it! 
And he was still talking excitedly when the missionary came 
to invite me to a second supper. 

I bade farewell to the family early next morning, swung 
my knapsack over my shoulder and limped down to the 



Among the Arabs 73 

road. But Bhamdoon was not yet done with me. In the 
center of the highway, in front of the little shop that he 
kept, stood the sheik and several of his townsmen. With 
great politeness he invited me to step inside. My feet were 
still swollen and blistered from the long tramp of the day 
before, for the cloth slippers of Port Said offered no more 
protection from the sharp stones of the highway than a sheet 
of paper; so I accepted the invitation. The village head 
placed a stool for me in front of the shop, where everybody 
walking up or down the road could see me. 

It soon began to look as if I were on exhibition as some 
strange animal that had been discovered, for the sheik 
pointed me out with delight to every passer-by. It was 
plain, too, that he was making use of the moment to collect 
some village tax. For on the floor beside me stood an 
earthenware pot, and as soon as the visitors had looked me 
over from all sides, the sheik invited them to drop into it a 
bishlcek (ten cents). Not a man passed without giving 
something; for the command of a sheik of a Syrian village 
is a law to all its people. 

After I had sat there for some time, a villager I had not 
yet seen appeared and began talking to me in English. I 
learned that he had once lived in Maine, where he had 
earned money enough to live in ease in his native country, to 
which he had returned years before. He insisted that I 
visit his house near by. While I was there he fell to tuck- 
ing bread-sheets, black olives, raisins, and pieces of sugar- 
cane into my knapsack, shouting all the while of his undy- 
ing love for America and things American. Out of mere 
pride for his dreary country, he took care, on his way back 
to the shop, to point out a narrow path that wound up the 
steep slope of the neighboring range of mountains. 



74 Working My Way Around the World 

"That," he said, "leads to the Damascus road; but no 
man can journey to Damascus on foot." 

The earthenware pot was almost full when I took my 
seat again on the stool. I turned to my new acquaintance. 

" What special taxes is the sheik gathering this morn- 
ing? " I demanded. 

"Eh! What?" cried the former New Englander, fol- 
lowing the direction of my finger. " The pot ? Why, don't 
you know what that 's for ? " 

" No," I answered. 

" Why, that is a collection the sheik is taking up to buy 
you a ticket to Damascus on the railroad." 

I picked up my knapsack from the floor, and stepped into 
the highway. The sheik and several bystanders threw 
themselves upon me to hold me back. It was no use trying 
to escape from a dozen horny hands. I permitted myself to 
be led back to the stool, and sat down with the knapsack 
across my knees. The sheik addressed me in soothing tones, 
as if he were trying to coax me to wait, pointing to the pot 
with every third word. The others went back to their seats 
on the floor, rolled new cigarettes, and became quiet once 
more. With one leap I sprang from the stool into the 
street, and set off at top speed down the highway, a scream- 
ing, howling, ever-increasing, but ever more distant crowd 
at my heels. 

Half an hour later I reached the top of a neighboring 
range of mountains, and slid down the opposite slope on to 
the highway to Damascus. 



CHAPTER IX 

A LONELY JOURNEY 

For miles the road climbed sharply upward, or crawled 
along the face of a mountain at the edge of a yawning pit. 
The villages were far apart, and as they were low and flat, 
and built of the same rock as the mountains, I did not notice 
them until I was almost upon them. In every such place 
one or more of the householders marched back and forth on 
the top of his dwelling, dragging after him a great stone 
roller and chanting a mournful tune that seemed to cheer 
him on in his labor. 

At first sight these flat roofs seemed to be of heavy blocks 
of stone. But they were really made of branches and 
bushes, plastered over with mud. If the rolling had been 
neglected for a fortnight in this rainy season, the roofs 
would soon have sagged and fallen in of their own weight. 

Most of the way was lonely. At one time I met a line of 
proud and scornful-looking camels plodding westward. 
Some time later a company of villagers on horseback ap- 
peared, and a long moment afterward I came upon a strag- 
gling band of evil-eyed Bedouins astride lean asses. Never 
a human being alone, never a man on foot, and never a trav- 
eler without a long gun slung across his shoulders. The 
villagers stared at me open-mouthed; the camel-drivers 
leered wickedly ; and the scowling Bedouins halted to watch 
me, as I went on, as if they were trying to decide whether I 
was worth the robbing. 

The highway wound upward through a narrow rocky 

75 



76 Working My Way Around the World 

passage between tall hills. As I went on I noticed how 
lonely the pass was. I began to think that wandering 
Bedouins could not choose a better spot in which to lie in 




Beyond the pass stretched mile after mile of rocky country, the lone- 
liest I had ever seen 



wait for the victims they meant to rob. Suddenly a shot 
rang out at the top of the pass. I started in alarm. 

The command came from no highwayman, however. 
Before a ruined hut on the hill above stood a man in khaki 
uniform, the reins of a saddled horse that grazed at his 
feet over one arm. " Teskereh ! " he bawled. 

I climbed the hillside, and handed over my Turkish pass- 
port. The officer grew friendly at once, and invited me into 
his hut. Its only furnishings were a mat-covered bench that 
served as a bed, and a pan of coals. I drew out a few coins 






A Lonely Journey 77 

and ate an imaginary breakfast. The officer could not or 
would not understand my acting. He motioned me to a 
seat, offered a cigarette, and poured out a cup. of muddy 
coffee from a pot over the coals ; but food he would not bring 
forth. 

After we had sat grinning speechlessly at each other for 
a while, I drew him out of the hut, and, once in the sunshine, 
opened my camera. He gave one wild shriek, and stumbled 
over himself in his haste to get back into the hovel. Nor 
could any amount of coaxing lead him to come out again 
until I had closed the camera. 

Beyond the pass stretched mile after mile of rocky coun- 
try, the loneliest that I had ever seen. Hills upon hills sank 
down behind each other, rocky and drear. Here and there 
a single olive tree added to the loneliness of the surround- 
ings. It was truly a " waste place of the earth." 

All through the day I tramped on, with never a sight or 
sound of any living ihing. Darkness fell over the same 
bare and rocky wilderness. The wind howled across the 
lonely waste. On this blackest of nights I could not have 
made out a ghost a yard away, and the unknown highway 
led me into many a pitfall. Long hours after sunset I was 
plodding blindly on > my cloth slippers making not a sound, 
when I ran squarely into the arms of some kind of person 
whose native footwear had made his approach as noiseless 
as my own. Three startled male voices rang out in hoarse 
shrieks of " Allah ! " as the trio sprang back in terror. 

Before I could pass on, one of them struck a match. The 
howling wind blew it out instantly, but in that brief flicker 
I caught sight of three ugly faces under the headdress that 
belongs to the roving Bedouin. " Faranchee ! " they 
screamed, and flung themselves upon the particular corner 



78 Working My Way Around the World 

of the darkness where the match had shown me standing. 

In the excitement of the moment 1 jumped aside so hastily 
that I fell. off the highway. The rattling of stones under 
my feet told them my whereabouts, and they charged upon 
me again. A dozen times, in the game of hide-and-seek that 
followed, I felt the breath of one of the rlea-bitten rascals 
in my face. 

The Arabic rules of the game, fortunately, made the play- 
ers keep up a continual howling, while I moved silently, after 
the fashion of the West. Helped in this unfair way, I man- 
aged to escape them until they stopped to whisper together. 
Then, creeping noiselessly on hands and knees, I lay hold 
on the highway and sped silently away, by no means certain 
whether I was headed toward Damascus or the coast. 

An hour later the howling of dogs told me that I was near 
a village. Once I halted to listen for sounds of human 
voices. Everybody, it seemed, was asleep, for what Syrian 
could be awake and silent? The lights that shone from 
every hovel proved nothing, for Arabs are afraid of the evil 
spirits that lurk in the darkness and leave their lamps burn- 
ing all night. 1 beat off the snapping curs and started on 
again. 

Suddenly sounds of laughter and excited voices sounded 
from a building before me. I hurried toward it and 
knocked loudly on the door. The merriment ceased. For 
several moments there was not a sound. Then there came 
the slapping- of slippered feet along the passageway inside, 
and a woman's voice called out to me. I called back in the 
few Arabic words I knew: " M'abarafshee arabee! Far- 
anchee! Fee wahed locanda? Bnam ! " ("I don't speak 
Arabic! Foreigner! Is there an inn? Sleep!") 

Without a word, the unknown lady slapped back along 



A Lonely Journey 79 

the hall. A good five minutes passed. I knocked once 
more, and again there came the patter of feet. This time a 
man's gruff voice greeted me. I repeated what I had said 
before. Then I heard the sliding of many bolts and bars, 
the heavy door opened ever so slightly, and the muzzle of a 
gun was thrust out into my face. The eyes above the mus- 
ket peered cautiously out into the darkness. 

A moment later the door was flung wide open, and a very 
giant of a native, with a mustache that would have made 
the Kaiser jealous, stepped out, holding his clumsy gun 
ready for instant use. I had to laugh at his frightened look. 
He smiled shamefacedly, and, going back into the house, 
returned in a moment without his gun, and carrying a lamp 
and a rush mat. At one end of the building he pushed open 
a door that hung by one hinge, and lighted me into a room 
with earth floor and one window from which five of the six 
panes were missing. A heap of dried branches at one end 
showed it to be a wood-shed. 

A starved-looking cur wandered in at our heels. The 
native drove him off, spread the mat on the ground, and 
brought from the house a pan of live coals. I called for 
food. When he returned with several bread-sheets, I drew 
out my handkerchief containing the coins, and began to untie 
it. My host shook his head fiercely and pointed several 
times at the ceiling to show that the missionaries had made 
a Christian of him and that he would not accept pay. 

Barely had the native disappeared when the dog poked 
his ugly head through the half -open door and snarled 
viciously at me. He was a wolfish animal, the yellow cur so 
common in Syria, and in his eye gleamed a wickedness that 
gave him a startling likeness to the thieving nomads that 
rove over that drear land. I drove him off and made the 



80 Working My Way Around the World 

door fast, built a roaring fire of twigs, and rolling up in the 
mat, lay down beside the blaze. 

1 woke from a doze to find that cur sniffing at me and 
showing his ugly fangs within six inches of my face. A 
dozen times I fastened the door against him — in vain. 
Had he merely bayed the moon all night it would have mat- 
tered little, for with a fire to tend I had small chance to 
sleep ; but his silent skulking and his muffled snarls kept me 
wide-eyed with uneasiness until the gray of dawn peeped in 
at the ragged window. 

The village was named Hemeh. I left it and continued 
my journey. The dreary hills of the day before fell quickly 
away. The highway sloped down a narrow, fertile valley in 
close company with a small river. On the banks of the 
river grew willows and poplars in great masses. 

A bright morning sun soon made the air agreeable, al- 
though the chill of night and the mountains still hovered in 
the shadows. Travelers became frequent. I met peasant 
families driving their asses homeward from the morning 
market, bands of merchants on horseback, and well-to-do 
natives in clothes that made me think of the unlucky coat 
of Joseph. Here passed a camel caravan whose drivers 
would, perhaps, purchase just such a slave of his brothers 
this very day. There squatted a band of Bedouins at break- 
fast. Beyond rode a full-bearded sheik who reminded me 
of Abraham of old. 

The road continued downward. The passing crowd be- 
came almost a procession. I swung, at last, round a group 
of hills that had hidden from view r an unequaled sight. 
Two miles away, across a vast level plain, crossed by the 
sparkling river, and peopled by a battalion of soldiers drill- 



A Lonely Journey 81 

ing in the sunlight, the white city of Damascus stood out 
against a background of dull red hills, the morning sun 
gleaming on its graceful domes and slender towers. I 
passed on with the crowd, and was soon swallowed up in 
" the street called Straight " — which is n't. 



CHAPTER X 

CITIES OF OLD 

The whistle of the locomotive is now heard in the suburbs 
of Damascus ; for, besides the railway to the coast, a new 
line brings to the ancient city the produce of the vast and 
fertile plain beyond Jordan. A few single telegraph wires, 
too, connect " Shaam " with the outside world, and the whir 
of the American sewing-machine is heard in her long, 
tunnel-like streets. But these few modern improvements 
make the ancient ways of the city seem stranger still. 

Here is a man with a stone hammer, beating into shape 
a vessel of brass on a flat rock. There a father and son are 
turning a log into wooden shoes with a very old-fashioned 
buck-saw, the man standing on the log, the boy kneeling 
on the ground beneath. Beyond them is a strange-looking 
turning-lathe. The workman squats on the floor of his open 
shop, facing the street; for no Damascan can carry on his 
business with his back turned to the sights and sounds made 
by the passing crowd. With his right hand he holds a sort 
of Indian bow which has its cord wound once around the 
stick he is shaping. As he moves this bow back and forth, 
the stick, whirling almost as rapidly as in a steam lathe, is 
whittled into shape by a chisel which he holds with his left 
hand and his bare toes. 

Mile after mile through the endless rows of bazaars, such 
old-fashioned trades are carried on. Every foot of space 
on either side of the narrow streets is in use. Wherever 
the overdressed owners of great heaps of silks and rugs have 






Cities of Old 83 

left a pigeonhole between their shops, sits a ragged peddler 
of sweetmeats and half-inch slices of cocoanut. 

Stores selling the same kind of article are found together 
in one part of the city, and nowhere else. In one section are 
crowded a hundred manufacturers of the red fez cap of the 
Mohammedan. In another a colony of brass-workers makes 
a deafening din. Beyond sounds the squeak of hundreds 
of saws where huge logs are slowly turned into lumber by 
hand power. The shopper who wants to buy a pair of slip- 
pers may wander from daylight to dusk among shops over- 
flowing with every other imaginable ware, to come at last, 
when he is ready to give up, into a section where slippers of 
every size, shape, and color are displayed on either side of 
the street, as far as he can see. 

To try to make headway against the pushing crowd is 
much like attempting to swim up the gorge of Niagara. 
Long lines of camels splash through the human stream, 
caring nothing for the small boys under their feet. 
Donkeys all but hidden under* great bundles of fagots that 
scrape the building on either side, asses bestraddled by shout- 
ing bovs who guide the beasts by kicking them behind the 
ears and urge them on by a queer trilling sound, dash out 
of darkened and unexpected side streets. Not an inch do 
they turn aside, not once do they slacken their pace. The 
faranchee who expects them to do so is sure to receive many 
a jolt in the ribs from the donkey, or from his load, and to 
be sent sprawling — if there is room to sprawl — as the 
beast and his driver glance back at him with a wicked 
gleam in their eves. 

Hairless, scabby curs, yellow or gray in color, prowl 
among the legs of the throng, skulking through the byways, 
devouring the waste matter they find, or lie undisturbed in 



84 Working My Way Around the World 

the puddles that abound in every street. The donkey may 
knock down a dozen foot travelers an hour; but he takes 
good care to step over the dogs in his path. Often these 
beasts gather in bands at busy corners, yelping and snarling, 
snapping their yellow fangs, and raising a din that puts a 
stop to bargainings a hundred yards away. If a by-stander 
wades among them with his stick and drives them off, it is 
only to have them collect again five minutes after the last 
yelp has been silenced. 

A mctleek is only a cent. Yet, as you pass through the 
streets of Damascus, the constant calling for it sounds like a 
multitude searching the wilderness for a lost child. " Met- 
leek! " cries the seller of flat loaves, on the ground at your 
feet. " Metleek ! " screams the wandering bartender, 
jingling his brass disks. The word is shouted command- 
ingly from the peddler whose novelty has attracted a crowd, 
fiercely from the angry-looking fellow w r hose stand has been 
deserted, pleadingly from the crippled beggar, who threads 
his way with astonishing swiftness through the human 
whirlpool. Unendingly the word echoes through the open- 
ings and windings of the bazaars. 

When night came on I was wandering dismally through 
the winding streets where long lines of merchants were set- 
ting up the board shutters before their shops. It mattered 
not in what European language I inquired for an inn of 
those I met. Each one muttered, " M'abarafshee " ("I 
don't understand " ) , and hurried on. 

I sat down before a lighted tobacco booth and pretended 
I was asleep. The proprietor came out to drive off the curs 
sniffing at my feet, and led the way to a neighboring caravan 
inn, where the keeper spread me a bed of blankets on the 
cobblestone floor. 



Cities of Old 85 

The next day I discovered the Hotel Stamboul, facing the 
stable that serves Damascus as post-office. I went in with 
little hope either of making my wants known or of finding 
the price within my means. The proprietor, strange to say, 
spoke a little French, and, stranger still, assigned me to a 
room at eight cents a day. 

I spent four days in Damascus before I began to make 
plans for getting out of it. I had intended to strike south- 
westward through the country to Nazareth. On the map 
the trip seemed easy. But I had found, on my journey 
from the coast, that maps do not show the distance to be 
covered in this little-known country. It was late in De- 
cember, and the rainy season was at hand. Several violent 
downpours that made me think of the flood described in the 
Bible had already burst over Damascus. These storms were 
sure to have made Palestine a muddy marsh, and to have 
turned its summer brooks into roaring torrents. 

The trip, however, could not have been more difficult than 
it was to find out about it. The people in the cities of Asia 
Minor are the most incurable stay-at-homes on the globe. 
They know no more of the country a few miles outside 
their walls than they do of the other side of the earth. 

I spent a day inquiring about it, and learned nothing. 
Toward evening I came across a French-speaking tailor who 
claimed to have made the first few miles of the journey. 
Gleefully I jotted down his directions in my notebook. An 
hour's walk next. morning brought me out on a wind-swept 
stretch of grayish sand beyond the city. For some miles a 
faint path led across the dreary waste. Wild dogs growled 
and snarled over the dead bodies of horses and sheep that 
lined the way. The wind whirled on high tiny particles of 
sand that bit my cheeks and filled my eyes. A chilling rain 



86 Working My Way Around the World 

began to fall, sinking quickly into the desert. The storm 
was becoming violent, when the path ceased at the brink of a 
muddy torrent that it would have been madness to try to 
cross. 

A lone shepherd was plodding along the bank of the 
stream. I pointed across it and shouted, " Nazra? " The 
Arab stared at me a moment, tossed his arms above his head, 
crying to Allah to note the madness of a roving faranchee, 
and sped away across the desert. 

I plodded back to the city. In the iron-workers' bazaar a 
sword-maker called out to me in German, and I halted to ask 
him about the road to Nazareth. The workman paused in 
his task of pounding a queer-looking sword, to tell me that 
the tailor was a fool and that the road to Nazareth left the 
city in exactly the opposite direction. " 'T is a broad cara- 
van trail," he went on, " opening out beyond the shoemakers' 
bazaar." 

The next morning I struck out in the direction the sword- 
maker had pointed out to me. The morning was cloudy and 
the air biting. Before I had passed the last shoemaker's 
shop a cold drizzle set in. On the desert it turned to a wet 
snow that clung to bushes and rocks like shreds of white 
clothing. The sword-maker certainly had played a joke on 
me. A caravan track there was beyond the last wretched 
hovel — a track that showed for miles across the bleak 
country. But, though it might have taken me to Bagdad 
or to the steppes of Siberia, it certainly did not lead to 
the land of the chosen people. 

I turned and trotted back to the city, cheered by the hope 
of sitting before such a fire as roars up the chimneys of 
American homes on the well remembered days of the first 
snow. The hope showed how little I knew of Damascan 



Cities of Old 87 

customs. The hotel proprietor and his guests were shiver- 
ing over a pan of coals that could not have heated a doll's 
house. 

I fought my way into the huddled group, and warmed first 
a finger and then a toe. But the chill of the desert would 
not leave me. A servant called the landlord to another part 
of the building. He picked up the "stove" and marched 
away with it, and I left my shivering fellow guests and went 
to bed, as the only possible place where I could get the 
chill out of my bones. 

The next day I spent Christmas in a stuffy car on the cog- 
wheel railway over the Lebanon ^frills, and stepped out at 
Beirut shortly after dark, to run directly into the arms of 
Abdul Razac Bundak. 

On the afternoon of December twenty-seventh I set out 
on foot for Sidon. Here, at least, I could not lose my way, 
for I had but to follow the coast. Even Abdul, however, 
did not know whether the ancient city was one or ten days 
distant. A highway through an olive grove soon broke up 
into several narrow paths. The one 1 chose led over low 
hills of sand, where the misfit shoes that I had picked up in 
a pawn-shop of Beirut soon filled to overflowing. I swung 
them over a shoulder and plodded on barefoot. A roar- 
ing brook blocked the way. I crossed it by climbing a wil- 
low on one bank and swinging into the branches of another 
opposite, and plunged into another wilderness of sand. 

Toward dusk I came upon a peasant's cottage on a tiny 
plain, and halted for water. A youth in the much patched 
uniform of the Turkish soldier, sitting on the well-curb, 
brought me a basinful. I had started on again, when a 
voice rang out behind me : " He ! D'ou est-ce que vous 
venez ? Ou est-ce que vous allez ? " In the doorwav of the 



88 Working My Way Around the World 

hovel stood a slatternly woman of some fifty years of age. 
I told her my nationality. 

" American ? " she cried, this time in English, as she 
rushed out upon me. "Oh, my! You American? Ale 
American, too! Oh, my! " 

I could hardly believe her, for she looked decidedly like a 
Syrian, both in dress and features. 

" Yes," she went on. , " I live six years in America, me ! 
I go back to America next month. I not see America for 
one year. Come in house ! " 

I followed her into the cottage. It was the usual dwelling 
of the peasant class — dirt floor, a kettle hanging over an 
open fire in one corner, a few ears of corn and bunches of 
dried grapes suspended from the ceiling. On one of the 
rough stone walls was pinned a newspaper portrait of 
McKinley. 

" Oh, my ! " cried the woman, as I glanced toward the 
portrait. " Me Republican, me. One time I see McKinley 
when I peddle by Cleveland, Ohio. You know Cleveland? 
My man over there " — she pointed away to the fertile slopes 
of the Lebanon hills — " my man go back with me next 
month, vote one more time for Roosevelt." 

The patch-work youth poked his head in at the door. 

" Taala hena [Come here], Maghmood," bawled the noisy 
Republican. " This American man ! He no have to go for 
soldier, fight long time for greasy old Sultan. Not work all 
day to get bishleek, him! Get ten, fifteen, twenty bishleek 
day ! Bah ! You no good, you ! Why for you not run 
away to America? " 

The woman kept a sort of lodging-house in a near-by 
stone hut, and insisted that I spend the night there. Chat- 
tering about one thing and another she prepared a supper of 






Cities of Old 89 

lentils, bread-sheets, olives, and crushed sugar-cane, and set 
out a bottle of beet (native wine)." The meal over, she 
lighted a cigarette, leaned back in a home-made chair, and 
blew smoke at the ceiling with a far-away look in her eyes. 

" Oh, my ! " she cried suddenly. ' You sing American 
song! I like this no-good soldier hear good song. Then 
he sing Arab song for you." 

I undertook to play the wandering minstrel with uncer- 
tainty. At the first lines of 'The Swanee River" the 
soldier burst forth in a roar of laughter that doubled him up 
as if he were having a fit. 

" You great fool, you; ' shouted the woman, shaking her 
fist at the property of the Sultan, who was lying at full 
length on the floor. " You no know what song is ! Shut 
up ! I split your head ! " 

This gentle hint made the youth sit up and listen most at- 
tentively, with set teeth, until the concert of the Western 
world was ended. 

When his turn came, he struck up a mournful chant that 
sounded like the wailing of a lost soul, and sang for nearly 
an hour on about three notes, shaking his head from side to 
side and rocking his body back and forth as his voice rose to 
an ear-splitting yell. 

The mournful tune was interrupted by a shout from the 
darkness outside. The woman called back in answer, and 
two ragged, bespattered Bedouins pushed into the hut. 
The howling and shouting that followed made me wonder 
whether murder or merely highway robbery had been com- 
mitted. The men shook their fists, and the woman almost 
cried. The quarrel lasted for a full half hour, and then 
there was quiet again. The woman took from the wall a 
huge key, and stepped out, followed by the Bedouins. 



90 Working My Way Around the World 

" You know for what we fight? " she demanded, when she 
returned. " They Arahs. Want to sleep in my hotel. 
They want to pay only four coppers. I say must pay five 
coppers — one metleek. Bah ! This country no good." 

Four fifths of a cent was perhaps as great a price as she 
should have asked from any lodger in the " hotel " to which 
she led me a half hour later. 

All next day I followed the faintly marked path that clung 
closely to the coast. Here and there a care-worn peasant 
toiled behind the wooden plow that the tiny oxen dragged 
back and forth across the fields. At times, when, the peas- 
ant turned to look at me, his plow struck a root or a rock, 
and he was obliged to pick himself up out of the mire. 
Nineteen showers flung their waters upon me during that 
day. Sometimes these showers were separated from each 
other by periods of the brightest sunshine. 

Late in the afternoon the sun was smiling bravely, when 
the path turned into a well kept road winding through a 
forest of orange trees, where countless natives were strip- 
ping the overloaded branches of their fruit. I had reached 
the ancient town of Sidon. From the first shop in the out- 
skirts of the place, the bazaar was one long orange-colored 
streak. 

I spent the night at a caravan inn. The next day I w T ent 
on southward, guided by the booming of the Mediter- 
ranean. Mile after mile the way led over slippery ridges of 
the mountain chain, through streams and across marshes in 
which I sank half way to my knees. 

The gloomy day was drawing to a close when I began to 
look for shelter. But I found none, and a gnawing hunger 
made me hurry on. I was crossing a crumbling stone bridge 
that humped its back across a wandering stream when an 



Cities of Old 91 

unhoped- for sight caught my eye. Miles away, at the end 
of a low cape, rose the slender tower of a Mohammedan 
church, surrounded by a jumble of flat buildings. I hur- 
ried toward it. 

Dusk turned to utter darkness. Far ahead twinkled a 
few lights, that seemed to move on before me as fast as I 
tried to draw near them. The flat sand gave way to rocks 
and boulders against which I barked my shins repeatedly. 

I had almost given up trying to reach the village that 
night, when the baying of dogs fell on my ear. 

In the dim moonlight I noticed a faintly marked path up 
the sloping beach. I followed it across sand-hills, and came 
up against a fort-like building, pierced in the center by a 
gateway. Two flickering lights under the archway cast 
wavering shadows over a group of Arabs huddled in their 
blankets near the gate. When I stepped before them out 
of the blackness of the night, they sprang to their feet with 
excited cries. 

I pushed through the group, and plunged into crooked 
alleyways filled with wretched hovels. All was silent in the 
bazaars; but the keeper of one shop was still dozing over his 
pan of coals between a stack of aged bread-sheets and a sim- 
mering kettle of sour-milk soup. I prodded him until he 
was half awake, and gathering up the bread-sheets sat 
down in his place. He dipped up a bowl of soup from force 
of habit ; then, catching sight of me for the first time, spilled 
the jelly-like mixture over my outstretched legs. 

The second serving reached me in the proper manner. 
A'group of Arabs gathered outside in the circle of light cast 
by the shop lamp, and watched me eat. I finished the bowl 
of soup and called for a second. They stared, astonished. 
Again I sent the bowl back. The by-standers burst into a 



92 Working My Way Around the World 

roar of laughter, and the boldest stepped forward to pat 
their stomachs mockingly. 

I inquired for an inn. A ragged giant stepped into the 
arc of light, and crying " Taala," set off to the westward. 
Almost at a trot he led the way by cobbled streets, down the 
center of which ran an open sewer, up hill and down. The 
corners we turned were so many that I could not count 
them. 

We came, at last, to a brightly lighted cafe, where a dozen 
jolly Arabs sat smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. My 
guide began calling out mournfully in the darkness, and 
drew me into the circle of light. A roar went up from the 
men in the cafe, and they tumbled pell-mell out upon us. 

My guide explained my presence in a trumpet-like voice. 
From every dwelling around poured forth dark, half- 
dressed men who, crowding closely about, began talking all 
together. Some one said that we ought to go inside the 
cafe. We did so, and the keeper, with his best company 
smile, placed a chair for me in the center of the room. The 
older men grouped themselves about me on more chairs, and 
the younger squatted on their heels around the wall. We 
were trying to talk in the language of signs, when a native 
pushed into the circle and addressed me in French. 
Through him they asked me where I came from, and why I 
was there, and were not satisfied until I had told them the 
entire history of my wanderings. 

I ended my story with the statement that I had left Sidon 
that morning. 

" Impossible ! " shouted the one who could speak French. 
" No man can walk from Sidra to Soor in one day." 

"'Soor? " I cried, recognizing the native name for Tyre, 
and scarcely believing my ears. " Is this Soor? " 



Cities of Old 93 

" Is it possible," gasped the native, " that you do not know 
you are in the ancient city of Tyre? Yes, indeed, my 
friend ; this is Soor. But if you left Sidon this morning you 
have slept a night on the way without knowing it." 

I inquired about the men in the room. The interpreter 
introduced them, one by one : the village clerk, the village 
barber, the village carpenter, the village tailor, and — even 
thus far from the land of chestnut trees — the village black- 
smith. They every one decided that I could not be allowed 
to continue on foot. Some days before, they said, between 
Tyre and Acre, a white man had been found murdered by 
some blunt instrument, and nailed to the ground by a stake 
driven through his body. They told the story, leaving out 
none of the horrors. Then they told it again to each other 
in Arabic, and acted it out for me. The village carpenter 
was the white man, a fisherman and the clerks were the 
assassins, and a piece of water-pipe was the stake. 

Midnight had long since passed. I promised the good 
citizens of Tyre to remain in their city for a day, to think 
it over. The keeper offered to let me sleep on a rush mat in 
a back room of the cafe. I accepted the invitation, and the 
men put up the shutters and marched away. 

The ancient city of Tyre is to-day a collection of stone and 
mud huts covering less than a third of the sandy point that 
was once filled with the life of a great city. Its four 
thousand humble people are now without education, art, or 
ambition. To the north, in the wretched harbor, were a few 
old fishing-boats, far different from the fleets whose sailors 
once made merry and sang in the streets of Tyre. Down 
on the encircling beach, half buried under the drifting sands 
and worn away by the lapping w T aves, lay the ruins of what 
must long ago have been great business blocks. The 



94 Working My Way Around the World 

Tyreans of to-day have carried away these ruins, stone by 
stone, to build their own humble dwellings. Even as I 
looked, half a dozen ragged Arabs were prying off the top of 
a great pillar, and loading the pieces into an old sailing- 
vessel. 

The next morning I passed through the city gate and con- 
tinued my journey on foot. From a short distance the 
gloomy group of huts behind looked pitifully small and 
mean, huddled together on the great plain near the vast blue 
sea. 

I came to the " Ladder of Tyre," a steep hill, which I 
climbed with many bruises. Beyond, range after range of 
rock-covered hills stretched out from the top of the ladder. 
Half climbing, half sliding, I went down the southern slope, 
and struggled on across a trackless country in a never-ceas- 
ing downpour. 

Night came on. The sun was settling to his bath in the 
Mediterranean. Across the throbbing sea, stretched a wa- 
vering ribbon of orange and red. Away to the eastward, in 
the valleys of the Lebanon, darkness already lay. Here and 
there on the rugged peaks, a tree, swaying in a swift breeze, 
stood out against the evening sky. Near by a lonely shep- 
herd guarded a flock of fat-tailed sheep. Beyond him lay 
a sea of darkness. The level plain soon changed to row 
after row of low sand-hills, unmarked by a single foot- 
print, over which my path rose and fell with the regularity 
of a tossing ship. 

The last glint of the blazing sun sank beneath the waves, 
leaving an unbroken plain of black water. The swaying 
trees became dim; the very peaks blended into the darken- 
ing sky of evening. It became difficult to see where the 
hills ended and the trough began. 



Cities of Old 95 

I stumbled half way up every slope. The shifting sands 
made walking difficult. On the summit of the ridges 
sounded the low moaning of the wind, rising and falling like 
far-off sobbing. It was easy to imagine the surrounding 
blackness peopled with murderous nomads. Somewhere 
among these never-ending ridges the " staked faranchee " 
had been done to death. 

Mile after mile the way led on. My path rose and fell so 
frequently that it seemed like crossing the same sandy billow 
over and over. The rain had ceased, but not a star broke 
through the darkened sky, and only the hoarse boom of the 
sea guided my steps. 

Once, when coming down a ridge with my feet raised high 
at each step in expectation of another hill in front of me, I 
plunged into a hole in which I sank almost to my knees in the 
mire. From force of habit I plowed on. The booming of 
the waves grew louder, and the wind from off the sea blew 
stronger and more chilling. Suddenly there sounded at my 
feet the rush of water. I moved forward cautiously, and 
felt the edge of what seemed to be a broad river pouring 
seaward. I could not cross it on a black night. I drew 
back from the brink, and, finding a spot that seemed solid 
enough, threw myself down. 

But I sank, inch by inch, into the wet earth. Fearful of 
being buried before morning, I rose and wandered toward 
the sea, stumbling over a heap of cobblestones probably 
piled there by peasants. I built a bed of stones on the side 
of the pile sheltered from the wind, tucked my camera in a 
hole among them, and, pulling my coat over my head, lay 
down. A patter of rain sounded on the coat ; then another, 
and another, faster and faster; and in less than a minute 
there began a downpour that lasted all night. 



96 Working My Way Around the World 

The heap of stones gave small protection against the 
piercing wind. My bed was short and like a half-circle in 
shape, so that 1 had to lie motionless on my right side, in 
order to protect my camera and films beneath. The rain 
quickly soaked through my clothing and ran in streams 
along my skin. The wind turned colder and whistled 
through the chinks of the pile. Through it all the sea 
boomed constantly, and in _the surrounding marshes un- 
wearying frogs croaked a dismal chorus. 

I was certainly awake at the first gleam of day. The new 
year was peering over the Lebanon when I rose to my feet. 
My left leg, though creaking like rusty armor, held me up all 
right; but 1 had no sooner shifted my weight to my right 
than it gave way like a thing of straw and let me down sud- 
denly into the mud. After rubbing it for some time I re- 
covered the use of the limb; but even then an attempt to 
walk in a straight line sent me round in a circle from left 
to right. 

Daylight showed the river to be lined with quicksands. 
Some distance up the stream I managed to cross without 
sinking below my arm-pits. Far off to the southeast lay a 
small forest. Thinking that a village might be hidden in 
its shade, I pushed eagerly forward through a sea of mud. 

When I reached the forest I found it to be a large orange 
grove surrounded by a high hedge and a ditch filled with 
water. There was not a house in sight. The trees were 
loaded with fruit. I emptied my knapsack, plunged through 
ditch and hedge, and tore savagely at the tempting fare. 
With half-filled bag I got back to the plain, caught up my 
scattered belongings, and struck southward, peeling an 
orange. The skin was close to an inch thick ; the fruit 
inside looked juicy enough to make anybody hungry. 



Cities of Old 97 

Greedily I stuffed a large piece into my month, and stopped 
stockstill, feeling as if I had been struck a sudden blow in 
the back of the neck. The orange was as green as the 
Emerald Isle, its juice more sour and bitter than half and 
half of vinegar and gall. I peeled another, and another. 
Each was more sour and bitter than the last. Tearfully I 
dumped the golden treasure into the mire and stumbled on. 

In the early afternoon I fell in with a band of roving 
Bedouins, and traveled on with them, splashing long hours 
through surf and stream along the narrow beach. Night 
had fallen before we parted in the Haifa market-place. 

At a Jewish inn in Haifa I made the acquaintance of a 
fellow countryman. He was born in Nazareth, of Arab 
blood, and had never been outside Asia Minor. But his 
grandfather had lived for a few years in New York, and, 
though the good old gentleman had long since been resting 
in his grave, his descendants were considered citizens of the 
United States in their native land, and did not have to pay 
taxes to the Turkish officials. They had the right to greet 
travelers from the new T world as fellow countrymen. Nazry 
Kawar was overjoyed at meeting a man from his own coun- 
try. He spent the afternoon drawing sketches of the routes 
of Palestine for me, and took his leave, promising to write 
me a letter of introduction to his uncle, a Nazarene dentist. 

Early the next morning I started out on the road to Naza- 
reth. Toward noon, in the lonely hills beyond the first vil- 
lage, two Bedouins, less bloodthirsty than hungry, fell upon 
me while I ate my lunch by the wayside. They bombarded 
me with stones from opposite sides ; but they threw like girls, 
and dodged like ocean liners, so that I caused more injury 
than I received. Finally I started a race down the high- 
way. They were no mean runners; but, when over the hill, 



98 Working My Way Around the World 

they caught sight of a road-repair gang of bronze-faced and 
muscular women, and were forced to stop. 

An hour later I reached the highest point of the route. 
Far beyond, colored by the delicate blue air that trembled 
and wavered in the afternoon sunshine, stretched a vast 
plain, walled by mountain ranges, that seemed many miles 
away. I followed the route along the top of the western 
wall, now passing between two mountain-peaks, now coming 




On the road between Haifa and Nazareth I met a road repair gang, 
all women but the boss 

out on a plateau; and, rounding at last a gigantic rock, I 
burst into Nazareth, the city where Christ spent his boyhood. 

Nazareth was a mere village in the time of Christ. To- 
day it covers the bowl-shaped valley in which it is built, and 
climbs to the summits of the surrounding hills. Seen from 
a distance, it looks like the amphitheater of a circus. 

I went on down into the city. In the crowded, babbling 
bazaars, I tried in vain to find the dentist Kawar to whom 
my letter was addressed. When my legs grew a-weary of 



Cities of Old 99 

wandering through the winding streets, and my tongue could 
no longer misshape itself in attempts to pronounce the 
peculiar sounds of the Arabic language, I sat down on a 
bazaar stand and leaned back carelessly, knowing that I 
should soon be taken care of. Near me on all sides rose a 
whisper, in the hoarse voice of squatting shop-keepers, in 
the high-pitched voice of passing children: "Faranchee! 
Fee waned faranchee! " 

Hardly a moment had passed before a scared-looking boy 
stopped near by to stare at me, in the manner of one ready to 
run in terror at the first sign of an unfriendly move on the 
part of this strange creature, whose clothes were so queer, 
whose legs were clothed in separate garments. Here, 
surely, was one of those dread bogey men who are known to 
dine on small Arabs, and so near that — perhaps he had 
better edge away and take to his heels before — But no; 
here are a dozen men of familiar look collecting in a half- 
circle back of him ! And there comes his uncle, the camel- 
driver. Perhaps the bogey man is not so fearful, after all, 
for the men crowd close around, calling him faranchee and 
efendee, and appearing not in the least afraid. 

The camel-driver is doubly brave, — who would not be 
proud to be his nephew ? — for he actually begins to speak 
to the strange being, while the crowd behind him grows 
and grows. 

" Barhaba ! " says the camel-driver in greeting. " Lailtak 
saeedee! Where does the efendee hail from? Italiano, 
perhaps? " 

" No; American." 

" Amerikhano ! " The word runs from mouth to mouth, 
and the faces of all hearers light up with interest. 
"America?" Why, that is where Abdul el Kassab, the 



100 Working My Way Around the World 

butcher, went long years ago. It is said to be far away, 
further than El Gkudis (Jerusalem) or Shaam (Damascus). 
But the camel-driver has found out something else about this 
faranchcc. Listen: "Bahree! The faranchee is a bahree, 
a sailor, a man who works on the great water, the ' bahr ' 
that any one can see from the top of yonder hill and on the 
shores of which this same camel-driver claims to have been. 
It is even said that to reach this xA.merica one must travel 
on the great water ! Indeed, 'tis far away, and were the 
faranchee not a bahree, how could he have journeyed from 
far-off America to this very Nazra? " 

But the few words of the Arabic that I knew were soon 
spent. I sat there, unable to tell them more. To the 
simple Nazarenes I was as much to be pitied as a deaf-mute, 
and they burst forth in pitying cries of " Meskeen " (" poor 
devil "). The camel-driver was still trying to find out more 
about me, when a well dressed native pushed through the 
crowd and spoke to me in English. I held up the letter. 

"Ah," he cried, "the dentist Kawar?" And he took 
the note out of my hand and tore it open. 

" But here," I cried. " Are you the dentist? " 

" Oh, no, indeed," said the native, without looking up 
from the reading. 

" Then what right have you to open that letter? " I de- 
manded, grasping it. 

The native gazed at me a moment, astonished and hurt. 

"Oh, sir," he said, "the Kawar is my friend. If it is 
my friend's letter it is my letter. If it is my letter it is my 
friend's letter. Arabs make like that, sir. I am Elias 
Awad, cook to the British missionary and friend to the 
dentist. Very nice man, but gone to Acre. But Kawar 
family live close here. Please, you, sir, come with me." 



Cities of Old 101 

Ten minutes later I had been welcomed by the family 
Kawar like a long-lost friend. Their dwelling showed them 
to be people of Nazarene wealth and importance. The 
father, keeper of a dry-goods store, had once been sheik, or 
mayor, of Nazareth, and was a man of most agreeable man- 
ners. He spoke only Arabic. His sons ranged from 
bearded men to a boy of nine. They had been distributed 
among the different mission schools of the town. Two of 
them spoke English ; a third spoke German ; the fourth 
spoke French, and the fifth Italian ; the youngest was already 
beginning to learn Russian. While I was bombarded 
with questions in four languages, I found a moment here 
and there to congratulate myself on my ignorance of the 
tongue of the Cossacks. 

While the evening meal was preparing, the family, a small 
army of all sizes, went forth to show me the sights. They 
pointed out Mary's Well, the workshop of Joseph, and other 
things that we read of in the Bible. 

After supper three of the sons of the family persuaded 
me to go to a little church on the brow of the valley, al- 
though I was very tired. The sermon was preached in 
Arabic, but I had heard the tunes of the hymns before. The 
worshipers in the church behaved quite differently from any 
I had seen. The men, who sat in the front pews, wore 
fezes in the latest style ; while the women, dressed all alike 
in white gowns, sat silently in the back seats, scarcely dar- 
ing to breathe. Now and then one of the men kicked off 
his loose slippers and folded his legs on his seat. And 
even the most religious among them could not keep from 
turning to stare at a faranchce who sat bare-headed in 
church. At the close of the service the ladies hurried home, 
but not one of the men was missing from the crowd that 



102 Working My Way Around the World 

waited to greet us as we left the church. My companions 
told them all they knew of me — and more. Among the 
hearers were two young men, Shukry Nasr and Nehme Si- 
man, teachers of English in the mission school. Being 
eager for a chance to practice talking the English language, 
and touched with the curiosity of the Arab, they would not 
go until I had promised to be their guest after my stay with 
the Kawars. 

The next day I learned something of the customs and 
ways of the better-class Arab. Shukry Nasr and Nehme 
Siman called early and led me away to visit their friend, 
Elias, the cook. On the way, if I chanced to want to buy 
something at the shops we passed, one or the other of my 
companions insisted on paying for it. " You are our guest, 
sir," said Nehme ; " we are very glad to have you for a guest 
and to talk English. But, even if we did not like, we should 
take good care of you ; for Christ said ' Thou shalt house 
the stranger who is within thy gates.' ' 

" Why," said the cook, when we began talking about the 
same subject after reaching the mission, " in the days of 
my father, for a stranger to pay for a place to live would 
have been an insult to all. A stranger in town ! Why, let 
my house be his — and mine! — and mine! would have 
shouted every honorable citizen! " 

" But Nazareth is getting bad," sighed Shukry. " The 
faranchees who are coming are very proud. They will not 
eat our food or sleep in our small houses. And so many 
are coming! So some inns have been built, where they take 
pay. Very disgraceful." 

" Did you give any policeman a nice whipping, " asked 
Elias suddenly. 



Cities of Old 103 

"Eh?" I cried. 

" If a faranchee comes to our country," he explained, 
"or if we go to live in America and come back, the police- 
man cannot arrest." 

" Yes, I know," I answered. 

" If a policeman touches you, then, you must give him a 
nice whipping," continued the cook. " If my father had 
been to America I would give nice whippings every day. 
Many friends I have the policeman dare not touch." 

" If they only refuse to obey the soldiers," said Nehme, 
" that is nothing. Everybody does that. But here is the 
wonderful! They do not have even to give backsheesh! " 

"Do you have backsheesh in America?" demanded 
Shukry. 

"Ah — er — well, the name is not the same," I stam- 
mered. 

" To-morrow," said Shukry, as I stropped the razor which 
the cook had invited me to use, " you are coming to live 
with me." 

" Look out, sir! " said the cook; " you are cutting your 
moustaches." 

"Why not?" I asked. 

" Aah ! " shrieked the cook, as I scraped my upper lip 
clean. " Why f aranchees make that ? So soon I my mous- 
taches would shave, so soon would I cut my neck." 

The next morning, shod in a pair of Nazarene slippers, 
heelless and as thin as Indian moccasins, I set out with the 
teachers for the home of Shukry. It was a simple dwelling 
half way up a hill, and from its roof spread out the bowl- 
shaped village at our feet. The death of the father a short 
time before had left the youth to rule over the household. 



104 Working My Way Around the World 

Although he was only seventeen years old, he seemed like 
a man, boasting already a bristling moustache, for human 
beings grow up early in the East. 

It was January seventh, a holiday among the Greek 
churchmen, and a day for visiting among all Christians. 
We had our shoes off, and were sitting on a divan, when 
the guests began to appear. They were all men, of course. 
Shukry stood erect in the center of the room, and bowed 
low to each guest as he appeared. The visitor returned 
his bow. There was no hand-shaking. After the greeting 
each arrival slid out of his slippers, and squatted on the 
long divan. When all were firmly seated everybody said 
" Naharak saeed " ("good evening"), and bowed again 
to everybody else in turn. 

If the newcomer were a priest, Shukry 's small brother 
slid forward to kiss his hand, and ran back to some out-of- 
the-way corner. After all the greetings had been given, 
each guest was served with cigarettes and a tiny cup of 
coffee. Visitors who attended the same church as Shukry 
broke into a lively talk with him. Others — the Greek 
priests especially — sipped their coffee in absolute silence, 
puffed at a cigarette, and, with another " Naharak saeed " 
glided into their slippers and departed. 

Later in the day we went to call on all the Christian fami- 
lies in the village, finally stopping at the Kawar home. The 
former mayor, dressed in faranchcc clothes, with a broad 
white vest, sat cross-legged in his white stocking- feet, a fez 
perched on his head. He talked long and pleasantly of 
things American, then wrote me four letters of introduction 
to friends in towns I meant to visit. 

" Without these letters," he explained, " you would not 









Cities of Old 10£ 

dare to stay in Gineen or Nablous ; for my friends are the 
only Christians there, and those are very bad towns. My 
friends in Jerusalem and Jaffa — if you ever get there alive 
— may be able to find you work." 



CHAPTER XI 

THE WILDS OF PALESTINE 

The sun rose clear and- red the next morning. It was 
the best sort of day for continuing my journey. The 
teachers set out to accompany me to the foot of the Naza- 
rene mountains. They struck oft through the village as the 
crow flies, paying no attention to the run of the streets. 
Down through the market, dodging into tiny alleys, under 
covered passageways, through spaces where we had to 
walk sidewise, they led the way. Where a shop was in 
the way they marched boldly through it, stepping over the 
merchandise and even over the squatting keeper, who re- 
turned their " good morning " without losing a puff at his 
cigarette. On they went, stopping for nothing, straight up 
the wall-like slope of a tall hill and out upon a well marked 
path that led over the brow of the hill. 

At the foot of the mountain they paused. To the north 
rose a snow-capped peak. Between the hills, to the west, 
peeped the sparkling Mediterranean. Eastward, as far as 
the eye could see, stretched a wall of mountains. We could 
see a dozen villages, tucked away in long, narrow valleys 
clinging to steep slopes, or lying bent over sharp ridges like 
broken-backed creatures. Shukry named these villages for 
me, and many of them were places I had read of in the 
Bible. The teachers pointed out a tall peak far across the 
trackless plain, which they said rose above the bad town 

1 06 



The Wilds of Palestine 107 

of Gineen, where all Christians were hated. Then, bidding 
me good-by almost tearfully, they turned back up the moun- 
tain pass. 

Late in the afternoon I passed through a country that 
looked like a garden, with graceful palms and waving pome- 
granates, and perfumed with the fragrance of orange and 
lemon groves, which covered the lower slope of the peak 
that had been pointed out to me. Back of the garden stood 
the bad town of Gineen. When I appeared among its peo- 
ple I met with scowls and curses. A few stones from a 
group of youngsters at a corner of the bazaar rattled in the 
streets behind me. 

My letter was addressed in Arabic. The squatting shop- 
keeper to whom I showed it scowled at me long and fiercely, 
but finally called a passing-boy, and, mumbling a few words 
to him, bade me follow. The urchin climbed up the slop- 
ing street, made several unexpected turnings, and pointed 
out a large house surrounded by a stern-looking wall. Then 
he scampered away as fast as he could go. 

I clanged the heavy knocker again and again, until the 
sound echoed up and down the street. But, receiving no 
answer, I sat down on the curb. A well dressed native wan- 
dered by. I showed him the letter. He glared at it, mut- 
tered, " Etnashar saa " (''Twelve o'clock at night"), and 
went on his way. From time to time visitors paused at 
neighboring gates or house- doors, and, standing in the cen- 
ter of the street, lifted up their voices in mournful wails, 
and the doors were finally opened to them. Beggars came 
past, wailing longer and more mournfully than the others; 
nor did they stop until a few bread-sheets or coppers were 
tossed out to them. Bands of women, whose faces were 
covered, drew up in a circle around me to talk about me 



108 Working My Way Around the World 

and to fill me with the creepy feeling one might experience 
at a visit of the Ku-Klux Klan. 

I had been squatting against the wall for fully two hours 
when an old man in European dress came slowly down the 
street, mumbling to himself as he ran through his fingers a 
string of yellow beads. He paused at the gate and pulled 
out a key. I sprang to my feet and handed him the letter. 
He read it with something of a scowl, and, motioning me 
to wait, went inside. I waited a long time. 

At last the gate groaned and made way for the ugliest 
creature in the Arab world. He was a youth of about 
twenty, as long as a day without bread, and so thin that the 
light seemed to shine through him. His shoulders were 
bowed until his head stuck out at right angles to his body. 
Long yellow teeth protruded from his lips. In his one eye 
was a wicked gleam. His behavior at once showed him to 
be one who hated faranchees with a deadly hatred. He 
w T ore the headdress of the Bedouin and half a dozen long 
flowing garments, which hung from his lank form as from 
a hat-rack. 

I understood enough of his snarling remarks to know 
that he was a family servant, and that he had been sent to 
lead me to the servants' quarters. He led the way to a 
hovel on the opposite side of the street, unlocked a battered 
door, and let me into a hut furnished with a moth-eaten 
divan and a pan of live coals. -A smartly dressed young- 
native came in soon after, and spoke to me in good French. 

" My family is in an unfortunate position," he explained. 
" We are friends of the Kawar, and so always the friends 
of his friends. As we are the only Christians in Gineen, 
we can give you only servants' quarters. But you must 
not stay in Gineen to-night. If you wait until to-morrow 






The Wilds of Palestine 109 

you will have to go on alone, and in the mountains are 
Bedouins who every day catch travelers and fill their eyes 
and mouths and noses with sand, and drag them around by 
a rope, and cut them up in small pieces and scatter them all 
around. You must go to-night with the mail caravan. 
Then you will be safe." 

" I 've tramped all day," I answered ; " I will find lodg- 
ings in the town if I am troubling your family." 

" Great heavens ! " shrieked the young man. " There 
you would be cut to pieces in an hour! Gineen hates 
Christians. If you stop here they will beat my family." 

He seemed so worried that I decided to do as he advised. 
He ordered the crooked servant to bring me supper, and 
went out. 

The queer creature followed his master, and returned with 
a bowl of lentils. He brought back with him two com- 
panions who did not look much better than he did. No 
sooner had he placed the food on the floor than all three 
squatted around it, and, clawing at it with both hands, made 
way with the meal so rapidly that I had to go hungry. 
When the last scrap had disappeared, the newcomers fell to 
licking the bowls. 

The long and crooked servant began the mournful wail 
that is the Arab notion of a song. Rocking back and forth 
where he sat, and thrusting out his long yellow teeth, he 
fixed a sidewise look upon me and howled for an unbroken 
two hours. I could tell by the roars of laughter from his 
mates that the words he sang were no compliment to faran- 
chees. 

At about nine o'clock in the evening he turned the other 
two into the street; then, motioning me to take up my knap- 
sack, he dived out into the night. I managed to keep at 



1 1 o Working My Way Around the World 

his heels, although he dodged among the huts, and even ran 
around some of them t\\ ice in his efforts to shake me off. 
At last we reached the station for caravans. The keeper 
of the inn was a bitter enemy of unbelievers, and at first 
did not want to let me in. He finally made way, however ; 
but he shouted abusive language at me as long as I re- 
mained in the building. The servant settled his misshapen 
form on a heap of straw, and took up his song of mockery 
where he had left off, while he cast sidelong looks of hatred 
at me. 

At last the caravan appeared. It was a train of four 
mules and three drivers. The snarls of the servant and the 
keeper w 7 ere friendly greetings compared with the vicious 
language and looks cast toward me by the newcomers when 
they were told I would go on with them. It looked to me 
as if they were more to be feared than capture by sand- 
stuffing Bedouins. 

One of the four mules was saddled with the mail-sacks, 
and, at a signal from the leader, the drivers sprang astride 
the others. The caravansary door opened, letting in a cut- 
ting draught of January air. I followed the party outside, 
fully expecting to be offered a mount on one of the mules. 
The train, however, kept steadily on. The hindmost Arab 
signed to me to grasp a strap on the back of his mule ; then 
he suddenly cut the animal across the flanks dangerously 
near my fingers, and they started off, while I trotted behind 
like a Damascus donkey-boy. I fancied I heard several 
chuckles of delight, half smothered in loud curses. 

The night was as black as a Port Said coaling negro. 
In the first few rods I lost my footing more than once, and 
barked my shins on a dozen large rocks. The joke the 
drivers played upon me, however, was not ended. Once, 



The Wilds of Palestine ill 

far enough from the* caravansary to make return difficult, 
the leader shouted an order, the three struck viciously at 
the animals, and, with a rattle of small stones against the 
boulders, away went the party at full gallop. I lost my grip 
on the strap, broke into a run in an attempt to keep up, 
slipped and slid on the stones, struck up a slope that I had 
not seen in the darkness, and, stumbling half way up it on 
my hands and knees sprawled at full length over a boulder. 

I sat up and listened until the tinkle of the pack-mule's 
bell died away on the night air ; then I rose to feel my way 
back to the caravansary. It w 7 as closed and locked. 
Luckily, I managed to find my way to the street in which 
the Christian lived, and pushed open the door of the hovel. 
No one was in the room, although the lighted wick of a 
tallow lamp showed that the servant had returned. I spread 
out three of the four blankets folded on the divan, and lay 
down. A moment later the walking skeleton entered, leaped 
sidewise as if he saw a ghost, and, spreading the remaining 
blanket in the most distant corner, curled up with all his 
flowing garments upon him. I rose to blow out the light; 
but the Arab set up a howl of cowardly terror that might 
have been heard in Nazareth, so I left it lighted. 

The next day I went on toward Nablous. The route was 
rocky and w T ild. I crossed range after range of rocky 
peaks covered with tangled forests of oak and turpentine 
trees. Here and there, against a mountainside, clung a 
black-hide tent village of roving Bedouins. These were the 
tribes that were believed to catch lone Christians and scat- 
ter their remains along the wooded valleys. To-day, how- 
ever, they were doing nothing more terrible than tending a 
few flocks of fat-tailed sheep. 

Late in the morning I came in sight of the mud village 



112 Working My Way Around the World 

of Dothan. It was a crowded collection of hovels — made 
of mud and shaped like those of the Esquimaux — perched 
on several shelves of rock that rose one above another. The 
well marked path that I had been following for some time 
led boldly up to the first hut, ran close along its wall, swung 
round the building, and ended. There was no other path 
in sight. 

A score of giant dogs, coming down upon me from the 
hill above, gave me little time to think. Luckily, there lay 
within reach a long-handled kettle, which I grabbed for 
self -protection; and the unwashed population that came 
tumbling down the slope after the dogs, to gaze upon the 
strange sight of a lone faranchce in their midst, saw him 
laying about right merrily. Not one of the villagers made 
any attempt to call off the curs. It was the usual case of 
every man's dog no man's dog. 

I went on up the slopes and shelves of rock. I could not 
find the path. Wherever a narrow passage-way looked like 
the trail, I scrambled up the jagged faces of the rock, only 
to find, after I had walked a long time, that each passage 
brought me into back yards where several huts choked the 
air with their smoke. 

At last I caught sight of a peasant astride an ass moving 
back and forth across the slope, but mounting steadily 
higher. I followed him, and came out upon a broad plat- 
form of rock. Beyond this was a path so steep that it 
seemed almost straight up and down. But that path merely 
showed me what the day's journey would be like. I over- 
took the peasant in a narrow valley ; and not far beyond, a 
second horseman burst out of another cut in the earth, and 
joined us. 

The peasant carried a club and a long blunt knife. He 






The Wilds of Palestine 113 

seemed quite anxious to keep both in plain sight. The 
second horseman, who wore the garb of a soldier, carried 
two pistols and a dagger in his belt, a sword at his side, and 
a long slim gun across his shoulders. The countryman of- 
fered to let me ride his beast ; but, as the animal was too 
small, I continued to trudge at its heels. 

About noon, on a narrow plateau, we came upon an open 
well surrounded by a party of wicked-looking Bedouins. 
They scattered quickly at sight of the officer. My com- 
panions tied their animals near a patch of grass, and drew 
out their dinners. The officer knelt beside the well with a 
pot ; but he was so stout that he could n't reach the water. 
The peasant was a Tom Thumb in size. So I reached down 
and dipped up the water for them. They were both grate- 
ful to me, and thrust food upon me from both sides so fast 
that I was unable to take it all. 

The officer seemed to be a man of wide experience. He 
did not appear much astonished at the faranclice way of 
eating ; but, more than that, he owned a strange machine at 
which the peasant gazed in speechless wonder. The strange 
thing was an alcohol lamp! The peasant seemed afraid of 
it, for he could not be coaxed within ten feet of it until the 
coffee was prepared. Then, after he had once become bold 
enough to touch the apparatus, he fell upon it like a child 
upon a strange toy, and examined its inner workings so 
thoroughly that the officer spent half an hour in fitting it 
together again. 

In the afternoon the peasant turned aside to his village, 
and not far beyond the soldier lost his way. What a small 
chance I should have had alone on a route that puzzled even 
a native acquainted with the country ! We had followed 
for some distance a wild cut between the mountains. Sud- 



114 Working My Way Around the World 

denly this ended against the wall of another cliff. On one 
side of us was an impassable jungle of rocks and trees, and 
on the other a slope leading upward almost as steep as the 
side of a house, and covered for hundreds of feet with loose 
slaty rock and rough stones. 

The officer dismounted and squatted contentedly at the 
foot of the slope. For an hour at least he sat there without 
moving, except to roll several cigarettes. At last a native, 
spattered with mud, appeared. The officer asked him a 
question, and he replied by pointing up the wooded slope. 
Three times the horse tried to climb up, only to slide help- 
lessly to the bottom. The officer handed me his gun ; then, 
dismounting, he tried to lead the steed up by walking back 
and forth across the slope. Several times the animal fell 
on its haunches and tobogganed down the hill, dragging 
the cavalryman after him. The gun soon weighed me down 
like a cannon ; but we reached the top at last, and were glad 
to stretch ourselves out on the solid rock surface of the 
wind-swept peak. 

The officer spread out food before us. Far below, to the 
southward, lay a wonderful scene. Two ranges of sharp 
and broken mountain-peaks raced side by side to the south- 
east. Between these ranges lay a wild tangle of rocks and 
small forests, through which a swift stream fought its way 
to the Mediterranean Sea, bending far out of its course in 
its struggle to get around the base of the mountain on which 
we stood. The place was as silent and lonesome as if it 
were some undiscovered world. 

For an hour we followed the run of the stream far below, 
for we knew it would finally lead us to lower, more level 
land. We rounded several peaks, climbing down little by 
little. The path became somewhat more plainly marked, 



The Wilds of Palestine 115 

but the scene remained wild and savage. Suddenly the 
cavalryman, who had just rounded a monstrous rock be- 
fore me, reined in his horse with an excited jerk, grasped 
his sword, and pointed with it across the valley. " Na- 
blous ! " he shouted. I hastened to his side. On a small 
plateau far below us, backed by a rocky waste of mountains 
and surrounded by a rushing river, stood a city, a real city, 
with straight streets and closely packed stone buildings like 
those of the Western world ! 

We wound our way down the mountain path to an old 
stone bridge that led directly into the city. At the gate 
a company of ragged, half -starved Turkish soldiers tried 
to stop me ; but my companion drove them off with a wave 
of the hand. We plunged at once into the noisy, crowded 
streets which were as narrow and as numerous as those 
of Damascus. They were covered with arch-shaped 
roofs almost their entire length, so that we seemed to be 
walking through a dark, cool tunnel. The shoes of the 
horse rang sharply against the cobblestones as the ani- 
mal plowed its way through the jabbering crowd, and by 
keeping close at its heels I escaped being jostled and 
pushed about. 

The shops looked very much alike. The cavalryman dis- 
mounted before one of them, handed the reins to the keeper 
who came forward to meet him, and, turning to me, ear- 
nestly invited me to spend the night in the inn above. But 
my Nazarene friends had given me letters to one Iskander 
Saaba, a Nazarene teacher, and I thought I ought to deliver 
them. 

I had a hard time finding the home of the teacher. In the 
cities of western Asia the streets are not named, nor the 
houses numbered. Mr. Smith, you learn, lives near the 



n6 Working My Way Around the World 

house of Mr. Jones. If you inquire further you may be 
told that Mr. Jones lives not far from the house of Mr. 
Smith, and so on; and you gain nothing by getting impa- 
tient or angry. 

A short distance from the inn, a water-carrier and a 
bakers boy struck me in the ribs at the same time with 
the burdens they carried. A runaway donkey, bestrided 
by a mean-looking fellow, ran me down. A tradesman 
carrying a heavy beam turned the corner just in time to 
make me see a starry sky in the covered passage-way. 
These things, of course, were merely accidents. But when 
three stout rascals caught hold of the knapsack across my 
shoulders, and hung on to it until I had kicked one of them 
into a neighboring shop, and a corner street peddler went 
out of his way to step on my heels, I could not so easily 
excuse them. As long as I remained among the crowded 
shops these sneaking injuries continued. Whenever I 
stopped, a crowd quickly gathered about me to show their 
dislike by purposely jostling against me, by making insult- 
ing remarks about my race, and even by spitting on my 
clothes. 

I found the home of Iskander Saaba at last, and spent 
a pleasant evening there. The next morning a steady rain 
was falling, and the young teacher urged me to stay over, 
with the old saying, " To-morrow is just as good as to- 
day.' 1 When I satisfied him that this was not a common 
saying in the Western world, he set out to show me the 
way through the city. On the way he stopped often to buy 
fruits, which he stuffed into my knapsack. When I ob- 
jected, he said: "It is far to Jerusalem, and some day 
I will come to America. 

Since the oldest times Nablous has carried on much trade 



The Wilds of Palestine 



117 







The shopkeeper and traveling salesman with whom I spent two nights 
and a day on the lonely road to Jerusalem. Arabs are very sensitive 
to cold, except on their feet and ankles 

with Jerusalem ; but only until very lately has the lazy Turk 
begun to build a road connecting the two towns. That part 
of the road beyond the southern gate was well built; but in 
this rainy season it was a river of mud, which clung to my 
shoes in great cakes, and made walking more difficult than 
it had been in the pathless mountains to the north. 



n8 Working My Way Around the World 

About noon I came to the end of the highway. I had 
been warned that the road was not finished. " It is all 
complete," Shukry had said, " except over the mountain, 
the highest mountain of Palestine, and over that it runs 
not." And it was true. Before me rose a high moun- 
tain almost as steep as a wall. A path was cut diagonally 
to the top, but I had to crawl up on my hands and knees 
with the greatest care, in the fear of losing my footing. 
At the top I came again upon the road. It was wide and 
well built, yet as it stood, it must have been utterly useless : 
for no carriage or other wheeled vehicle could ever have been 
dragged up that wall-like hillside; and the sure-footed ass 
which still carries merchandise between the two cities would 
make the journey exactly as well had the new road never 
been thought of. 

Long after nightfall I stumbled upon a lonely shop. In- 
side were the keeper and a traveling salesman of tobacco. 
The building was no more than a wooden frame covered 
over with sheet-iron; and soon after I had gone to bed on 
one of the shelves that served as bunks, the rain began to 
thunder on the roof near my head. This continued all 
through the night. Sleep was as impossible as it would 
have been inside a bass drum at a concert. In the morning 
a downpour more violent than I had ever known held us 
prisoners; and, as the weather was bitterly cold, I stayed 
on my shelf and listened to the roaring of the tin shack 
through the longest day that ever rained or blew itself into 
the past tense. 

The next day the storm was not so bad ; so I set out again. 
In all the dreary country round I came across only one 
stone village. It was the ancient Bethel, lying among the 
sharp hills. Beyond it the highway side-stepped to the 



The Wilds of Palestine 



119 



eastward. The air of Palestine was filled with moisture 
that morning. The hills ahead were somewhat veiled by 
the mist; in the valleys lay a thick gray fog; while over- 
head the sky was dull and lead-colored. 

Before me, well above the sky-line, hung a long, dark 




The Palestine beast of burden carrying an iron beam to a building 

construction 



in 



cloud. As I looked at this cloud it began to take on the 
shape of a distant line of buildings ; yes, it was a city in the 
sky that I saw, with a wide strip of sky beneath it. It grew 
plainer and plainer, until there appeared in the heavens a 
dull gray city, a long city, bounded at one end by a great 
tower, at. the other shading off into nothing. Then sud- 
denly it disappeared. Black clouds, scurrying westward 
from across the Jordan River, erased the image from the 
sky as if it had been a lightly penciled line. 



120 Working My Way Around the World 

Yet it was Jerusalem that I saw. Miles beyond, the fog 
lifted and showed the city plainly, and it was that same 
long city bounded on the east by a great tower ; but this time 
it had footing on the solid earth — on a dull, drear hill that 
sloped to the west. I went on down the highway, and 
across the hills and the dreary fields, — past the tombs of 
the Kings and Judges, where to-day shivering shepherd 
boys seek shelter from the winds, — and on into the crowded 
bazaars of the city where Christ was crucified. 

Great, howling crowds swept me through markets dirtier 
than those of Damascus, up and down slimy stone steps, 
jostling, pushing, trampling upon me at every turn. They 
did not do this because they wanted to be disagreeable to 
me : It was merely carelessness on their part, for they 
had seen so many faranchees that they did not notice me 
when I got in their way. But I was very tired from my 
long day's tramp ; so when I reached the end of a street I 
turned to an open doorway in order to get out of the crowd. 
Through the doorway I caught a glimpse of a long stretch 
of green grass and of a great mosque, or Mohammedan 
church. 

I had no sooner stepped inside this yard than a shout 
arose from a rabble of men and boys at one side of the 
square. But that did not surprise me, for in Damascus the 
people had shouted every time I entered the grounds belong- 
ing to a mosque. So I marched on, pretending I did not 
notice that they were howling at me. The shouting became 
louder. Men and boys came down upon me from every 
direction, howling like demons, and firing stones at me from 
every side. Some of them struck me on the legs ; others 
whistled dangerously near my head. I left hurriedly. 

Later in the day I learned that I had trespassed into the 



The Wilds of Palestine 121 

sacred grounds of the mosque of Omar. It is named for 
Caliph Omar, the leader of the Mohammedans who captured 
Jerusalem from the Christians in the year 1636. One who 
does not worship Mohammed may not enter this mosque 
or the grounds belonging to it without a guard of paid sol- 
diers. 

I got back into the crowded streets, and was pushed and 
jostled as before. To escape this I went down more slimy 
steps and along a narrow alley until I came to a towering 
stone wall. Here I saw a strange sight. Hebrews, rich 
and poor, some dirty and ragged, others wearing diamonds, 
by turns kissed and beat with their fists the great blocks of 
stones, shrieking and moaning with tears streaming down 
their cheeks. I did not have to be told where I was. This 
time I had fallen upon the " Jews' Wailing Place." 

I wandered here and there, and at noonday remembered 
that a sum hardly equal to forty cents jingled in my pockets. 
It was high time to look for work. So I turned toward 
the office of the American consul. If there were work to 
be had by faranchees in the city, the consul, surely, would 
know it. I fought my way through the gazing crowd of 
doorkeepers and others into the outer office. A moment 
later I was admitted to the inner office. The kindly white- 
haired consul asked me to give him a full account of my 
journey in Palestine. 

" I shall give you a note to the Jewish hotel across the 
way," he said, when I had finished, " and you may pay the 
bill when you earn the money. For you will find work,- 
you may be sure. See me again before you leave the city." 

I mounted an outdoor stairway on the opposite side of 
David Street to a good inn. From the window of the room 
assigned to me there was a far-reaching view. To the 



, 



122 Working My Way Around the World 

north, east, and south spread a jumble of small buildings, 
with their dome-shaped roofs of mud or stone outlined 
against a few houses covered with red tiles. Here and 
there rose the slender minarets or steeples of Mohamme- 
dan mosques, and in about the center of the city was the 
great Christian Church, which is said to be built to cover 
the spot where the Saviour was buried. At the farther edge 
of the city, yet so near that I could see it from base to 
dome, stood the beautiful mosque of Omar where I had 
but recently caused so much excitement. Back of it 
was a forest of olive trees, and farther on the Mount of 
Olives. Beyond, miles of dreary hills stretched away to 
the great wall of the mountains of Moab. 

While I was taking a walk after dinner, I came upon an 
Englishman who lived in Jerusalem. The Englishman 
wanted some letters translated into French. I began on 
them at once, and worked late into the night. For the three 
days following I spent my time in writing and in sight-see- 
ing. The bazaars were half deserted at this period ; for on 
Friday the Mohammedans held a festival, Saturday was the 
Jewish Sabbath, and Sunday the day of rest for Christians. 
So among them all there was little going on in the business 
section during those three days. 

On Saturday, at the hotel, there was nothing to eat but 
meat. It was served cold, for what Jew could order his 
servants to build a fire on the Sabbath? The day grew 
wintry cold, however. The hotel-keeper sent for a servant, 
and gave orders in a language that sounded much like 
German, ending with the unnecessary remark : " I believe 
this is one of the coldest days we have had this year." 

The servant scratched his moth-eaten head, shuffled off, 



The Wilds of Palestine 123 

and returned with a bundle of twigs that were soon 
crackling in the tiny sheet-iron stove. 

On Sunday I had nothing much to do ; so I pushed 
through the howling mob of peddlers at the gate of the city, 
and strolled southward along a road from which I could see, 
now and then, the sparkling waters of the Dead Sea. A 
few hours later I climbed into the wind-swept village of 
Bethlehem. 

Standing like a fortress at the center of the town is the 
Church of the Nativity, built over the site of the manger 
where Christ was born. The rough stone walls on each 
side of the low doorway of this church are so blackened by 
the hands of centuries of pilgrims that the entrance looks 
like a huge rat-hole. Had it been Christmas Eve while I 
was there, I should have seen a great procession of priests, 
clergymen, and Turkish soldiers carrying waxen candles and 
marching to the basement of the church, where a waxen 
baby to represent the infant Jesus lies in a marble manger, 
on cushions of red silk with a layer of straw beneath. I 
should have heard the oldest priest of the procession sing 
the story of Christ's birth, while outside in the streets the 
people feasted and sang merry songs until morning. As it 
was, however, I went inside to see nothing more exciting 
than Christians of many beliefs worshiping in different 
parts of the church. 

That afternoon I returned to Jerusalem. The English- 
man came next morning with another letter, which I wrote 
in French and returned to him at noon. Then, having 
paid my bill at the hotel, I went to tell the consul that I was 
about to leave the city. 

" How much money have you? " he asked. 



124 Working My Way Around the World 

" About two dollars.' ' 

" Good ! Now, my lad, take my advice. There is a 
steamer leaving Jaffa for Egypt to-night. Take the after- 
noon train, — ten francs will more than pay your fare, — and 
once in Jaffa perhaps you can get work on the steamer to pay 
your passage across. Ask the American consul there to give 
you his assistance." 

" I can save money by walking," I had the courage to 
say. 

" Impossible ! " cried the consul. " It is forty miles to 
Jaffa. The ship leaves at noon, and there is not another for 
ten days. Take the train ; you can't walk there in time." 

In spite of the consul's advice, I spent half my money for 
a roll of films, and struck out on foot to the coast. Long 
after dark I found a place to sleep in Latron, the home of 
the thief who was crucified with Christ. 

I put off again before daylight, in a pouring rain, across 
a marshy plain. It was nearly noon when I reached port ; 
but the sea was running mountain-high, and the task of 
loading the steamer was going on slowly. A native offered 
for a few coppers to guide me to the American consul. To- 
gether we rushed through the streets, ankle-deep in soft 
mud, and stopped at last before a large hotel. I dashed 
into the office and called for the consul. 

"Impossible!" cried the clerk. " The consul is at din- 
ner." 

I started toward the dining-room. The clerk snatched 
wildly at my dripping garments, and sent a servant to tell 
the consul I wanted to speak to him. 

A moment later a very tall American consul stood 
framed in the doorway before me — though, to be sure, 
the frame was a good six inches too short and wrinkled 






The Wilds of Palestine 125 

the picture sadly. He was a Frenchman, and so excited be- 
cause he had been disturbed " before the wine " that he 
could think of no words but those in his own language. 
While he scolded me violently he tore at his hair. It was 
long before I could induce him to listen to me. When he 
finally understood that I wanted merely a note to the ship's 
agent, he became more friendly and said he would write it 
at once. 

A moment later the clerk handed me an unfolded note, 
and I rushed away to the wharf a half mile distant. The 
ship was still there. I hurried to the office window, and 
thrust the letter through the opening. Even in my hurry 
I could not fail to notice that the agent who peered out at 
me wore a glass eye — and a celluloid nose ! 

His face puckered up as he read the note. " Ah i " he 
said, drawing a ticket from the rack. " Very well ! The 
fare is twelve francs." 

" The fare ? But does n't the consul ask you to let me 
work for my passage as a sailor? " 

He pushed the note toward me. It was in French. I 
heard a warning whistle from the harbor ! The letter was 
written in a scrawl : 

Dear Friend: 

The bearer, Harris Franck, is an American sailor who wishes to 
go to Egypt. Will you kindly sell him a ticket and oblige your 
humble, etc., etc. 

American Consular Agent. 

A letter giving the company the right to sell me a ticket 
that it would have been delighted to sell to any sort of man 
or ape that had the money! It was of no value whatever. 



126 Working My Way Around the World 

Caring nothing for the rain, I sat v down against a pillar 
outside the office. Only four miserable francs rattled in 
my pocket. I now saw that I would have to spend long, 
penniless days on the Jaffa beach. The loading and un- 
loading of the steamer were still going on. Boatmen were 
struggling to row across the mountain-like waves. Now 
and then a giant billow overturned a freight-filled rowboat 
high on the beach. Barefooted natives waded into the surf 
with tourists in their arms. Each warning whistle seemed 
to thrust Egypt farther and farther away. If only — 

I felt a tap on the shoulder. A young native in the uni- 
form of the ship's company was bending over me. 

" Go on board anyway," he advised me. 

"Eh?" I cried. 

" The captain is English. If you are a sailor he will 
give you work." 

" But I can't get on board," I answered. 

For reply the native pointed to his company's boat, loaded 
with baggage and mails, at the edge of the wharf. I 
snatched up my belongings and dropped into it. 

The steamer was about to start when I scrambled on 
board. I fought my way through a jumble of tumbled bag- 
gage, seasick natives, and shouting seamen, and tried to 
make my way to the captain. A huge seaman pushed me 
back. When darkness fell on an open sea I had not yet 
succeeded in reaching him. Squirming natives covered 
every spot on the open deck. I crawled under a canvas, 
used my bundle for a pillow, and fell asleep. 

In what seemed about half an hour later I awoke to find 
the ship gliding along as smoothly as on a river. I crawled 
out on deck. A bright morning sun was shining, and be- 
fore my astonished eyes lay Port Said. 



The Wilds of Palestine 127 

The ship glided on. It was bound for Alexandria. I 
went to find the captain once more — and once more was 
pushed back by the brawny seaman. 

I returned to the deck and sat down. To my horror, the 
Arabian purser began to collect the tickets. He came near 
me and held out his hand. 

" Where can I see the captain ? " I demanded. 

" M'abarafshee " ("I cannot understand "), he answered 
in Arabic, shaking his head. " Bilyeto ! " (" ticket! ") 

Certainly I must give some excuse for being on board 
without a ticket. I rummaged through my pockets for the 
consul's note, spread it out, and laid it in the purser's hand. 
Its yellow color looked disturbingly out of place on the col- 
lection of dark blue tickets. The officer poured forth his 
astonishment in a torrent of Arabic. 

" M'abarafshee ! " I mocked. 

He opened his mouth to send forth another torrent, 
paused, scratched his head, and, with a shrug of his shoul- 
ders, went on gathering bilyctos from the native passengers. 

Some time later he climbed down from the upper deck, 
and, beckoning to me, led the way to the captain. The 
latter, a huge Briton, stormed back and forth across the 
ship, striving to give orders to the native crew in such 
Arabic as he could call to mind — but breaking into violent 
English with every fourth word to rage at the sailors for 
their stupidity. His eye fell upon me. 

"Here!" he roared furiously. "What is all this?" 
And he waved the now ragged note in my face. 

" Why, that 's a note from the American consul in Jaffa, 
sir. I asked him to write that I wanted to work for my 
passage to Egypt. ,, 

The purple anger on the skipper's face, caused partly by 



128 Working My Way Around the World 

the strain of trying to make himself understood in Arabic, 
disappeared somewhat at the sound of his own language. 

" But," he went on more quietly, " this note asks the com- 
pany to sell you a ticket. It 's written in French, and this 
is what it says — " And he translated it. 

" American sailor, are you? " he went on. 

I handed him my papers stating that I had been a sailor. 

" I 'm ready to turn to with the crew, sir," I put in. 

" N — no. That '11 be all right," said the skipper, stuff- 
ing" the note into his pocket, as he turned to see what the 
seamen on the deck below were about. 

" Cover that hatch before a sea fills her ! " he shouted. 

Early next morning I went ashore in Alexandria. 






CHAPTER XII 

CAIRO AND THE PYRAMIDS 

In all of north Africa there was no place that I wanted 
to visit more than Cairo. I had heard, too, that I might 
find work there easily. At any rate, I felt that I must get 
there soon, before my money was entirely gone. 

I went to the railway station in Alexandria, and found 
that the fare to Cairo was just three piasters more than I 
had. Should I go by train as far as my money would take 
me, and finish the journey on foot and penniless? Or 
should I save the few coins I had for food on the way, and 
tramp the entire distance? 

While I was thinking it over I dropped on a bench in a 
park, and fell to whittling a stick. A countryman in fez 
cap and gown, strolling by, stopped and stared at me. 
Then he sat down on the far end of my bench, and watched 
my movements closely. Inch by inch he slid along the 
bench. 

" Very good knife," he murmured. 

"Aywa" ("Yes"), I answered, tossing away the stick 
and closing the knife. 

The Arab gave a gasp of delight. 

" But it shuts up like a door," he cried. 

I opened and closed it several times for him to see, then 
slid down in my seat, my thoughts elsewhere. 

" You sell it? " grinned the peasant. 

" What? " I gasped, sitting up in astonishment. 

129 



130 Working My Way Around the World 




A woman of Alexandria, Egypt, carrying two bushels of oranges 

" I give you five piasters," he coaxed. 

" Take it!" I cried, and, grasping the coin he held out 
to me, dashed away to the station. 

Half an hour later I was speeding southward across the 
fertile delta of the Nile. How different was this land from 
the country I had so lately left behind! Every few miles 
the train halted at a busy city. Between these cities were 
the mud villages of the Egyptian peasant, and many well cul- 



Cairo and the Pyramids 131 

tivated fields. Inside the car, which was much like our 
own in America, well dressed natives read the latest news- 
papers with the easy manners of Paris business men. There 
were several half blind Egyptians in the car, victims of an 
eye disease common in this country; but even they leaned 
back in their seats contentedly. An eyeless one in one cor- 
ner roared with laughter at the lively talk of his com- 
panions. Far more at ease was he, for all of his misfor- 
tune, than I, with neither friend nor acquaintance in all the 
length and breadth of the continent. 

Evening came on. The changing scenery grew dim. 
The land near and far was so flat that in the dusk I could 
hardly tell the difference between a far-off village and a 
water-buffalo lying down near at hand. The western sky 
turned red for a moment, dulled to a brown, and then the 
darkness that suddenly spread over the land left me to 
stare at my own face beyond the window. The sight was 
not encouraging. Who would give work to the owner of 
such a face and figure? The lights that began to twinkle 
here and there over the black plain were of villages where 
strangers were very probably disliked and unwelcome. 
Every click of the wheels brought me nearer to the greatest 
city of Africa, of which I knew little more than the name. 
Yet I would soon be wandering alone there in the darkness, 
with only ten cents in my pockets! Perhaps in all Cairo 
there was not another penniless adventurer of my race! 
Even if there were, and a lodging for vagabonds somewhere 
in the great city, what chance had I of finding it? For 
who would understand my words, and even if they did who 
could direct me to such an out-of-the-way place? 

The train halted in a vast domed station. A great crowd 
swept me through the waiting-rooms and out upon a 



132 Working My Way Around the World 

brightly lighted square. There the screaming mass of hack- 
men, porters, donkey-boys, and hotel runners drove me to 
seek shelter behind a station pillar. I swung my knapsack 
over my shoulder, and gazed at the human sea about me, 
hopelessly undecided as to what to do or where to go. 
Suddenly a voice sounded above the roar: "Heh! 




An abandoned mosque (Mohammedan church) outside the walls of 
Cairo, and a caravan off for a trip across the desert 

Landsmann, wohin? " (" Comrade, where are you going? '') 
I stared eagerly about me. Under a near-by arc-light stood 
a young man of sun-burned face, in a stout, somewhat 
ragged suit, and a cloth cap. When he saw me look at him 
he dived into the crowd and fought his way to my side. 

" Ah ! " he shouted in German. " I knew only one of 
the boys would blow into town with a knapsack and a cordu- 
roy suit! Just got in from Zagazig myself. How long 
have you been away ? Business any good down at the 



Cairo and the Pyramids 133 

coast? Don't believe it is. Cairo 's the place for easy win- 
nings." 

As he talked we left behind the howling crowd. No 
need to ask where he was taking me. 

" You '11 meet all the comrades where we 're going," con- 
tinued my companion. 

We crossed a corner where street-cars clanged their way 
through a great crowd, and turned down a street faced by 
brightly lighted shops. 

" This street is the Moosky," said the German. " Good 
old lane. Many a piaster I 've picked up in her." 

He dodged into a side alley, jogged over a street, and en- 
tered the lodging of " the comrades." It was a wine-shop 
with a kitchen in the rear, on the lowest floor of a four- 
story building. A shuffling Jew was drawing beer and wine 
for several groups of noisy Europeans at the tables. The 
Jew kept up a continual jabber in Yiddish, to which the 
drinkers replied now and then in German. A woman wan- 
dered in from the back room with a steaming plate of meat 
and potatoes. 

" The place has lodgings," said my companion, pointing 
at the ceiling. " They cost three piasters. You can still 
eat a small piaster worth." For I had told him how much 
money I had. 

By the time I had finished eating, the " comrades " were 
demanding that I tell them who I was and where I came 
from. As all the party spoke German, I gave them a short 
account of myself in that language. 

" And what countryman are you? " asked a youth at the 
next table. 

" I am an American." 

The entire party, including the Jew, burst into a roaring 



134 Working My Way Around the World 

laugh so suddenly that two black boys who had been peer- 
ing in upon us scampered away down the street. 

" Amerikaner ! Ja! Ja!" shrieked the merry-makers. 
" Certainly! We are all Americans. But what are you 




An Arab cafe in Old Cairo 

when you tell the truth to your good comrades? Ameri- 
kaner! Ha! Ha!" 

The first speaker beat a tattoo on the table with his cane, 
and the others became quiet. Plainly he was the leader of 
the company. 

" Now, then," he cried, as if I had the right by the rules 
of " the union " to give two answers, "what country arc 
you from? " 

I repeated that I was an American. 

"So you are an American really?" he demanded sud- 
denly in clear English. 



Cairo and the Pyramids 135 

He thought I would not understand him; but a long 
reply in my own language proved that I did. The others, 
however, grinned unbelievingly and fell to chattering again. 

"Why doesn't the crowd believe me?" I asked of the 
.youth who had spoken to me in English. 

" Ah ! " he burst out, " here in Cairo all the boys are 
Americans. We have Germans, Austrians, Poles, Hun- 
garians, Norwegians — all sorts — in our union ; and every 
one is an American — except when they are together. 
And not one of them ever saw the United States ! It is be- 
cause, of all the foreign travelers in Egypt, the Americans 
are most ready to give money — to their own countrymen, 
of course. The Germans will help us. Yes! but how? 
By giving us a loaf of bread or an old pair of shoes or two 
piasters. Bah ! But the Americans — they give pounds 
and whole suits ! The tourists are your rich harvest, mein 
Freund ! If you are a real Amerikaner, you can live in 
Cairo until you grow a beard! " 

So I had fallen among the beggars of Cairo! It was too 
late, however, to find another lodging-place. I leaned back, 
and finally fell asleep amid the fumes of tobacco that filled 
the room. 

A whining voice sounded in my ear: " H'raus, hop! " 
(" Wake up! ") I opened my eyes to find the Jew herd- 
ing over me. The room was almost empty, but the youth 
who had spoken to me in English still sat there. I paid 
my lodging, and followed him up a narrow winding stair- 
way at the back of the shop. On the third floor he pushed 
open a door which was much like the drop of a home-made 
rabbit-trap. This let us into a small room containing six 
beds. Four of these were already occupied. It needed 
only one long-drawn breath to prove that the bed-clothes 



136 Working My Way Around the World 

had not seen the wash-tub for months. But he who is both 
penniless and particular should stay at home. I took the 
bed beside that of the German, and soon fell asleep. 

The next morning I arose early, hoping to find work be- 
fore noon. But my new acquaintance of the evening be- 
fore was awake. He asked me where I was going. 

I told him I was going to look for work. 

" Work ! " he shouted, springing to his feet. " A fellow 
who can talk English — and German too — wants to work 
in Cairo? Why, you — you 're a disgrace to the union." 

I went down to the street and set out to look for a job. 
Long after dark, footsore and half starved, covered with 
the dust of Cairo, I returned to the lodging-place of the 
comrades, and sat down at one of the tables. It was easy 
to see that the comrades were not footsore. They had told 
a hard-luck story somewhere, and returned with enough 
money to enable them to sit around for the rest of the day. 
Apparently that was all they expected or cared to do for 
the rest of their lives. 

The leader of the union watched me, with a half -smile on 
his face, for some time after I had entered. " Lot of 
work you found, eh? " he began. Then he raised his cane 
and rapped on the table for silence. 

" Ei ! Good comrades ! " he cried. " I have something 
to show you! Look once! Here is a comrade who is an 
American — do you hear? — a real American, not a 
patched-up one. And this real American — in Cairo — 
wants to work ! " 

"Work?" roared the chorus. "Work in Cairo — and 
a real American — Ist's denn ein Esel?" ("Is he a jack- 
ass?") 

I ate a tiny supper and crawled away to bed. For two 



Cairo and the Pyramids 137 

days following I tramped even greater distances, without 
success. But, in a side street in which sprawled and 
squalled so many Arabian babies that I could n't count them, 
I came upon the mission building called the Asile Rudolph. 
Glad to escape from the beggar colony at last, I tugged at a 
bell-rope that hung from a brick wall. A bare-legged Arab 
let me in. The superintendent, seated in the office, wel- 
comed me. He was a lively Englishman about fifty years 
old. He had long been a captain on the Black Sea, and was 
still known to everybody as " Cap " Stevenson. 

There was something more than bed and board for the 
lucky lodgers of the Asile Rudolph. The mission had a 
new shower bath ! It was closed during the day; but, as 
I was never the last to finish the evening meal, I would get 
inside the wooden closet first; and it was only the argu- 
ment that the stream could be put to even better use among 
my companions that saved me from a watery grave. 

I looked for work for five days longer. No tourist ever 
peeped into half the strange corners to which my wander- 
ings led me. I learned the Arabic language rapidly, too; 
for the servants of Cairo seemed to hate workmen of my 
race; and the necessity of speaking my mind to them made 
me learn new words every day. 

Rich or penniless, however, there must be something 
wrong with any one who does not enjoy the winter in 
Cairo. Here one never has to change his plans on account 
of the weather, for Egypt is always flooded with joyous 
sunshine. There is much to see, too, in this city of the 
Nile. If you take a walk to the Esbekieh Gardens, you 
can hear a band concert at any time, and Arabians are al- 
ways performing queer tricks out there. At all hours of 
the day, people of great wealth are driving about in the 



138 Working My Way Around the World 



gardens, while the crowds stand watching them 



the Khedive and his guard thunder by 



At times 
Now and then 



the shout of Cairo's most famous runner tells us that the 




Th- 







Carriage runners of Cairo, clearing the streets for their master 

Khedive's master, Lord Cromer, is coming near. There is 
always enough to see — but not enough to eat. 

One day, while wandering sadly away across the city, I 
stumbled upon the offices of the American ambassador. I 
managed to fight my way into the presence of the consul- 
general himself, and told him of my experiences in Cairo. 

" If you are willing to do any kind of work," he said, " I 
can give you employment at once.'' 

I told him that any kind of work would be welcome. 

The consul chose a card from his case, turned it over, 
and wrote on the back : 

Tom: Let Franck do it. 

" Take this," he said, " to my home ; it is opposite that of 
Lord Cromer, near the Nile. Give it to my butler." 



Cairo and the Pyramids 139 

" Tom," the butler, was a young American. I came 
upon him dancing blindly around the ball-room of Mr. Mor- 
gan's residence, and shouting himself hoarse in Arabic at 
the servants under his charge. The consul, I was told, was 
to give a dinner, with dancing, to the society people winter- 
ing in the city. In the two days that were left before the 
evening of the party, the ball-room floor must be properly 
waxed. Twelve Arabic workmen had been puttering 
around in the dance-hall doing almost nothing since early 
morning. About them was spread powdered wax ; in their 
hands were long bottles; above them towered the dancing 
butler. 

"Put some strength into it!" he shouted, as I stepped 
across the room toward him. 

A thirteenth " workman," who had been hired to squat 
in a far corner and furnish musical encouragement, began 
to sing. For the next three strokes the dozen bottles, mov- 
ing together in time with the tune, nearly crushed the pow- 
dered wax under them. But this unusual show of energy 
did not last long. 

I delivered the written message. Tom read it. " I '11 
fire 'urn!" he bellowed. The xArabs bounded half across 
the room at his shriek. " I '11 fire 'urn now! An Ameri- 
can? I 'm delighted, old man!, Get after this job while I 
chase these fellows downstairs. Had any experience at 
this game? " 

I thought of a far-off college gymnasium, and nodded. 

" Take your own time, only so you get it done," cried the 
butler, chasing out the fleeing Arabs. 

I tossed aside the bottles, and fixed up a tool of my 
own with which to rub the floor. By evening the pol- 
ishing was half done. When I turned my attention to 



140 Working My Way Around the World 



the dust-streaked win- 
dows, late the next after- 
noon, the ball-room floor 
was too slippery to be 
safe for any but sure- 
footed dancers. 

On the evening of the 
entertainment I helped to 
look after the dinner. 
We were separated only 
by a Japanese screen 
from the guests of the 
evening. Among them 
were Lord Cromer and 
the ex-Empress Eugenie, 
once Queen of France, 
who was driven from the 
throne by the Germans in 
1870; the Crown Prince 
of Sweden was there, 
and the brother of the 
Khedive, ruler of Egypt. 

An Arab gardener on the estate T , , r , • ■, 

of the American consul of Cairo, for Jt ^ vas lon g after mid " 

whom I worked two weeks night when I returned to 

the Asile. Captain Stevenson let me in. I found the in- 
mates there still, all up and awake at that late hour, waiting 
for me. They were as excited as so many schoolgirls, and 
asked me question after question about whom I had seen at 
the party, what they had done, how they had danced, what 
they had talked about. I was sorry I did not have some- 
thing interesting to tell them. As it was, the dancing had 
not been especially graceful, and the conversation of the 




Cairo and the Pyramids 141 

great people had been commonplace. By arrangement with 
Tom, I continued to " do it " long after the ball. The food 
at the servants' table was excellent, and I kept my cot at the 
Asile at a cost of two piasters a day. 

One evening while sitting in the office at the mission I 
saw in a Cairo newspaper the following paragraph : 

Suez, February 2nd, 1905. 

The French troop-ship , outward bound to Madagascar with 

five hundred recruits, reports that while midway between Port 
Said and Ismailia, on her way through the Canal, five soldiers who 
had been standing at the rail suddenly sprang overboard and swam 
for shore. One was carried under and crushed by the ship's 
screw. The others landed, and were last seen hurrying away into 
the desert. All five were Germans. 

I showed the paragraph to the superintendent. " Aye," 
said Cap; "I've seen it; that happens often. They'll be 
here for dinner day after to-morrow." 

They arrived exactly at the hour named, the four of them, 
sunburned and bedraggled from their swim and the tramp 
across the desert. Two of the four were very friendly fel- 
lows. I was soon well acquainted with them. One of the 
two had spent some months in Egypt before. 

On the Friday after they arrived, the one who had been 
in Egypt on a former occasion met me at the gate of the 
Asile as I returned from my day's labor. 

" Hehf Amerikaner," he began, " do you get a half holi- 
day to-morrow ? " 

" Yes," I answered. 

" I 'm going to take Hans out for a moonlight view of 
the Pyramids. It 's full moon, and all the companies are 
sending out tally-ho parties. Want to go along?" 

I did, of course. The next afternoon I left the Asile 
in company with the two. At the door of the office 



142 Working My Way Around the World 

I stopped to pay my lodging for the coming night. 

" Never mind that,' 1 said Adolph, the man who had in- 
vited us. " We -11 sleep out there." 

" Eh? " cried Hans and I. 




MP 



Egypt — A young Arab climbing down the pyramid 

Adolph pushed open the gate, and we followed. 

" Suppose you '11 pay our lodging at the Mena House out 
there?" grinned Hans, as we crossed the Kasr-el-Nil 
bridge. 

" Don't worry," cried Adolph. 

We pushed through the throng of donkey-boys beyond 
the bridge. There was a street-car line running along an 
avenue lined with trees, out to the Pyramids in the desert; 
but we covered the eight miles on foot. 






Cairo and the Pyramids 143 

Darkness fell soon after we reached the place, and with 
it arose the moon, large and red. The Pyramids were mon- 
strous. They looked like mountains. Adolph led the way 
in and out among them, and pointed out the most charming 
views, like a guide. We climbed to the top of the Pyramid 
of Cheops. Cheops was once a king of Egypt, you know. 




On top of the largest pyramid. From the ground it looks as sharply- 
pointed as the others 

The Pyramid that was built for his tomb still covers thir- 
teen acres. It seems to run to a peak when viewed from a 
distance, but we found the " peak " three yards square 
when we reached the top. Some of the huge blocks of 
stone that we had to pull ourselves over, in making the 
climb, weigh over fifty tons. 

The desert night soon turned cold. We climbed down 



144 Working My Way Around the World 

again. The tourist parties strolled away to the great hotel 
below the hill, and Hans fell to shivering. 

" Where 's this fine lodging you were telling about? " he 
chattered. 

V Just come here," said Adolph. 




I take a camel 



ride 



while visiting the pyramids 



He picked his way over the huge blocks of limestone that 
had tumbled from the ancient monuments toward the third 
Pyramid, climbed a few feet up its northern side, and 
disappeared in a black hole. We followed, and, doubled 
up like balls, slid down, down, down a steep tunnel about 
three feet square, into utter darkness. As our feet touched 
a stone floor, Adolph struck a match. The flame showed 
two small cave-like rooms, and several huge stone coffins. 



Cairo and the Pyramids 145 

"Beds waiting for us — you see?" said Adolph. 
" Probably you 've chatted with the fellows who used to 
sleep here. They re in the British museum in London.'' 

He dropped the match, and climbed into one of the cof- 
fins. I chose another, and found it as comfortable as a 
stone bed can be, though a bit short. Our sleeping-room 
was warm, somewhat too warm, in fact, and Hans began 
to snore. The noise echoed through the vaults like the 
beating of forty drums. When we awoke it was still as 
dark as midnight, but our sense of time told us that morn- 
ing had come. We crawled upward on hands and knees 
through the tunnel, and out into a sunlight that left us 
blinking painfully for several minutes. 

A crowd of tourists and Arabian rascals were surging 
about the monuments. Four British soldiers in khaki uni- 
forms kicked their heels on the forehead of the Sphinx, 
puffing at their pipes as they told the latest garrison jokes. 
We fought our way through the Arabs who dung to us, 
took a look at the sights, and then strolled back to Cairo. 



CHAPTER XIII 

A TRIP UP THE NILE 

One fine morning, some two weeks after my introduc- 
tion to Tom, I left my post in the consul's household, and 
set about making plans for a journey up the Nile. For I 
knew that if I once journeyed up or down this river with 
open eyes, I would know all there is to know about this long 
and narrow country. 

I left Cairo on foot, and, crossing the Nile, turned south- 
ward along; a ridge of shifting sand beyond the village of 
Gizeh. There was an irrigating ditch near the ridge. 
Scores of natives, moving with the regularity of machinery, 
were ceaselessly dipping the water that gives life to the 
fields of Egypt. Between the canal and the sparkling Nile, 
groups of Egyptian farmers, called fellahs, deaf to the fiery 
sunshine, set out sugar-cane, or clawed the soil of the dry 
plain. On the desert wind rode the never-ceasing squawk 
of the Egyptian water-wheel. 

Beyond the Pyramids of Sakkara I found shelter in the 
palm groves where the ancient city of Memphis once stood, 
and took my noonday sleep on the statue of King Rameses 
which lies at full length there. When I was returning to 
the sandy road, a whole village of dark-faced people came 
running up, and tried to head me off and make me give 
them baksheesh. They forced me to run a gauntlet of out- 
stretched arms. It is the national song of Egypt, this cry 
of baksheesh. Workmen at their labor, women bound for 
market, children rooting in the streets, drop everything to 

146 



A Trip Up the Nile 147 

crowd around the traveler who may be coaxed to " sprinkle 
iron " among them. Even the unclothed infant astride a 
mother's shoulder thrusts forth a dimpled hand to the pass- 
ing white man, with a gurgle of " sheesh." 

As darkness came on I reached the town of Magoonza. 
I spent the night in a railway station. The next day I took 



\ 







"Along the way shadoofs were ceaselessly dipping up the water that 
gives life to the fields of Egypt " 

the third-class coach, and halted near noonday in the wind- 
swept village of Beni Suef. A young Englishman who was 
called " Bromley, Pasha, Inspector of Irrigation," agreed to 
meet me on the bank of the canal beyond the village. Long 
after dark he appeared on horseback, attended by two na- 
tives who carried flaming torches. After being ferried 
across the canal, he led the way toward his dahabcah 
(winged house-boat), which was anchored at the shore of 
the Nile. 



148 Working My Way Around the World 

" I fancied I 'd find something to put you at," he ex- 
plained, turning his horse over to a jet-black servant who 
popped up out of the darkness. " But I did n't, and the last 
train 's gone. I '11 buy vou a ticket to Assiut in the morn- 
ing." 

" I have a ticket," I put in. 

" Oh," said the Englishman. " Well, you '11 stay with 
me here to-night, anyway." 

He led the way across the piank into his floating resi- 
dence. The change from the windy plain of African sand 
to this floating palace was as strange as if Bromley, Pasha, 
had been the owner of Aladdin's lamp. Richly turbaned 
servants in spotless white gowns sprang forward to greet 
their master; to place a chair for him; to pull off his riding- 
boots and to put on his slippers; to slip the Cairo " daily " 
into his hands ; and then to speed noiselessly away to finish 
preparing the evening meal. 

Breakfast over next morning, I returned to the village, 
and left on the south-bound train. The third-class coach 
was packed with natives huddled together with unmanage- 
able bundles. Three gloomy Arabs, who had no room to 
squat on the floor, perched themselves on a bench at the side 
of the car like fowls on a roost. The air that swept through 
the open car was almost wintry. Only the faces of the men 
were uncovered. The women, wrapped like mummies in 
fold after fold of black gowns, crouched on the floor, so 
motionless that one could hardly tell which were women and 
which were bundles. 

At every station peddlers of food swarmed around the 
train. Dates, boiled eggs, baked fish, oranges, and soggy 
bread-cakes — enough to feed an army — were thrust upon 
all who dared to look outside. From the neighboring 



A Trip Up the Nile 149 

fields came workmen loaded down with freshly cut bundles 
of sugar-cane. They looked like a forest in motion. Three 
great canes, as long and unmanageable as bamboo fishing- 
rods, sold for a piaster, and almost every native in the car 
bought at least a half dozen. 

The canes were broken into pieces two feet long ; and each 
native, grasping a piece in his hands, bit into it and, jerking 
his head from side to side like a bulldog, tore off" a strip. 
Then, with a suckling that could be heard above the roar of 
the train, he drew out the juice and cast the pulp on the floor 
about him. The pulp dried rapidly, and by noonday the 
floor of the car was carpeted with a sugar-cane mat several 
inches thick. 

I spent the night at the largest city in upper Egypt — 
Assint. Long before daylight next morning I rose and 
groped my way back through the darkness to the station. A 
ticket to Luxor took less than half my money. I boarded 
the train and once more started south. At break of day 
the railway crossed to the eastern bank of the river, and at 
the next station the train stood motionless while engineer, 
trainmen, and passengers went outside and performed their 
morning prayers in the desert sand. Beyond, the chimneys 
of great sugar factories puffed forth dense clouds of smoke, 
and at every stopping-place shivering small boys offered for 
sale cone-shaped lumps of sugar, dark-brown in color. 

The voice of the south spoke more clearly with every 
mile. We were now coming to the district where rain and 
dew were unknown. The desert grew more dry and 
parched; the whirling sand became finer, until it sifted 
through one's very clothing. The natives, already of a 
darker shade than the cinnamon-colored Cairene, grew 
blacker and blacker. The chilling wind of two days before 



150 Working My Way Around the World 

turned warm, then piping hot ; and before we drew into 
Luxor, Egypt lay, as of old, under her glittering covering 
of gleaming sunshine. 

Before me were two great European hotels filled with 
tourists. And close by the station was an inn for penniless 
wanderers. It was a tumble-down shack wherein, dream- 
ing away his old age over a cigarette, sat Pietro Saggharia. 
Pietro was a wanderer once. His stories of " the road," 
collected during forty years of roaming atSut in Africa, and 
told in almost any language the listener may choose, are to 
be had for a kind word. 

I left my knapsack in Pietro's keeping, and struck off 
toward Karnak. Tourists go to Karnak to see what is left 
of many temples there. The principal temple is that built 
in honor of Ammon, a being that the Egyptians once wor- 
shiped. Ammon was an imaginary creature with the body 
of a man and the head and horns of a ram. He was sup- 
posed to be very wise and able to answer any question asked 
of him. His temple was once magnificent, having immense 
columns, carvings, sculptures, and paintings, placed there by 
his worshipers. 

I did not expect to see the inside of the famous temples, 
for I had no ticket. The price of such a ticket is little short 
of a vagabond's fortune. I journeyed to Karnak, therefore, 
with my mind made up to be content with a view of her row 
of sphinxes and a walk around her outer walls. 

Natives swarmed about me, calling for " baksheesh." 
Before I had shaken off the last screeching youth I came 
upon a great iron gate that shut out the uriticketed, and 
paused to peer through the bars. On the ground before the 
gate squatted a sleek, well fed native. He arose and told 
me he was the guard, but made no attempt to drive me off. 



A Trip Up the Nile 151 

As I turned away he said in Arabic : ' You don't see 
much from here. Have you already seen the temple? Or 
perhaps you have no ticket? " 

" No ; no ticket," I answered in Arabic. " Therefore I 
must stay outside." 

"Ah! Then you are no tourist?" smiled the native. 
" Are you English? " 

" Aywa," I answered, for the Arabic term " Inglesi '' 
means all who speak that language ; " but no tourist, merely 
a working-man." 

" Ah," sighed the guard ; " too bad you are an Inglesi, 
then; for if you spoke French the superintendent who has 
the digging done is a good friend of working-men. But he 
speaks no English." 

" Where shall I find him?" 

" In the office just over the hill, there." 

I went in the direction pointed out, and came upon a small 
office before which an aged European sat motionless in a 
rocking-chair. About him were scattered many kinds of 
statues, broken and whole. 

" Are you the superintendent, sir? " I asked in French. 

The aged Frenchman frowned, but answered not a word. 
I repeated the question in a louder voice. 

''' Va. t'en! " shrieked the old man, grasping a heavy cane 
that leaned against his chair, and shaking it feebly at me. 
"Go away! You 're a beggar. I know you are." 

I told him I had mistaken him for the superintendent. 
The aged Frenchman watched me with the half-closed eyes 
of a cat, clinging to his stick. 

"Why do you want to see the superintendent? " he de- 
manded. 

" To work, if he has any. If not, to see the temple." 



152 Working My Way Around the World 

44 You will not ask him for money ? " 

" Certainly not.'' 

" Well ! It is there. Maghmood ! " he coughed. 

A native appeared at the door of the shanty. 

44 My son is the superintendent," said the old man, show- 
ing a maze of wrinkles meant for a smile. 44 Follow 
Maghmood." 

The son, a polite young Frenchman clothed in the thinnest 
of white trousers and an open shirt, was bowed over a small 
stone covered with ancient Egyptian figures. I told him 
why I had come. 

"Work?" he replied. 44 No. Unfortunately, the so- 
ciety allows us to hire only natives. I wish I might have a 
few Europeans to look after the digging. But I am pleased 
to find a workman interested in the ruins. You are as free 
to go inside as if you had a ticket. But it is midday now. 
How do you escape a sun-stroke, with only that cap ? You 
had better sit here in the shade until the heat dies down a bit." 

I assured him that the Egyptian sun did not trouble me, 
and he stepped to the door to shout an order to the well fed 
gate-keeper just out of sight over the hill. That official 
grinned knowingly as I appeared, unlocked the gate, and, 
pushing back with one hand several small black boys who 
were racing about, let me in to the noonday quiet of the 
forest of pillars. 

As the shadows began to grow long, a flock of sheep 
rushed into the sacred place, and, stumbling through the 
ruins, awoke the sleeping echoes with their bleating. They 
were trying to get to their shepherds, who were calling to 
them in voices that sounded like phonographs. After they 
had left, there came more peaceful beings weighed down 
with cameras and note-books. Everybody was interested 



A Trip Up the Nile 153 

in one lively corner of the place. There, in the latest hollow 
dug, an army of men and boys toiled at the machines that 
raised the sand and the water which had been poured into 
the pit to loosen the soil. Other natives, naked, groped in 
the mud at the bottom, eager to win the small reward offered 
to the discoverer of each ancient treasure buried in the earth. 

One such prize was captured in the afternoon. A small 
boy, half buried in mud and water, suddenly stopped wal- 
lowing about, and uttered a shrill shriek of joy. He came 
dangerously near being trampled out of sight by his fellow 
workmen. In a twinkling half the band, amid a mighty roar 
of shouting and splashing, was tugging at some heavy object 
hidden from view in the mud. 

They raised it at last — a woman's figure in blue stone, 
about four feet in length. The news of the discovery was 
quickly carried to the shanty on the hill. In a great white 
helmet that made him look like a walking toad-stool, the 
superintendent hurried down to the edge of the pit, and gave 
orders that the statue be carried to a level space, where a 
crowd of excited tourists lay in wait with open note-books. 
There it was carefully washed with sponges, while the tour- 
ists stood gazing eagerly at it. Then it was placed on a car 
of the tiny railway laid among the ruins. Crowds of na- 
tives grasped the long rope attached to the car, and, moving 
in time to a wild Arabic song of rejoicing, dragged the new 
find through the temple and placed it at the feet of the aged 
Frenchman. 

As evening fell I turned back to my lodging-place. Sev- 
eral lodgers had gathered, but neither they nor Pietro could 
tell me anything about the land across the Nile, which I 
meant to visit next day. 

There is another ruined temple near Luxor. Although 



154 Working My Way Around the World 

it is a mile north of Karnak, it was once connected with the 
temples of that town by an avenue bordered on either side 
with ram-headed sphinxes. The temple is of sandstone, and 
until the digging for it was begun in 1883 it was entirely 
buried in sand and rubbish. About it six enormous statues 
of an Egyptian king are still standing. 

No one at the inn could tell me anything about the ruins 
that the tourists came to see. The Greek keeper of the inn 
knew nothing of the ruins of Thebes except the story of a 
man who had once stopped at his hotel. This man had 
tried to make the excursion, and had returned wild with 
thirst, mumbling a confused tale of having floundered about 
in a sea of sand. 

" For our betters," said Pietro, in the softened Italian in 
which he chose to address me, " for the rich ladies and gen- 
tlemen who can ride on donkeys and be guarded by many 
guides, a visit to Thebes is very well. But common folk like 
you and me! Bah! We are not wanted there. They 
would send no army to look for us if we disappeared in the 
desert. Besides, you must have a ticket to see anything." 

I rose at dawn the next morning, and hastened away to 
the bazaars to get food for the day's trip — bread-cakes for 
hunger and oranges for thirst. A native boatman tried to 
charge me ten piasters for rowing me to the other side ; but 
when I refused to pay him that much, he accepted one in- 
stead, and set me down on the western bank. The shrill 
screams of a troop of donkey-boys, who were crossing the 
river with their animals, greeted the rising sun. A moment 
later a party of tourists, wearing veils and helmets, stepped 
ashore from a steamer, and, mounting the animals, sped 
away into the trackless desert. It was an interesting sight. 
The half-mile train of donkeys that trailed off across the 



A Trip Up the Nile 155 

desert was bestridden by every kind of European, from thin 
scholars and slender maidens to heavy women and mighty 
masses of men, who had to beat their animals continually to 
make them keep up with the rest. 

The sharp climb to the Tomb of the Kings was more 
difficult to an overburdened ass than to a man on foot. 
I kept pace with the band, and even got ahead of the strag- 
glers, often stopping to shake the sand from my shoes. 
Even though the jeering donkey-boys kept pushing me into 
the narrow gorges between the rocks, it was I who reached 
the gate first. An Arabian policeman was on hand to help 
the keeper take tickets. But he spoke Italian, and was so 
delighted to find that he could talk with me without being 
understood by the rest of the crowd that he gave me permis- 
sion to enter. 

I was now so used to such places that I was able to find my 
way about alone. I left the party and struck southward 
toward a steep cliff of stone and sand. To go past this, 
those on donkeys had to make a circuit of many miles ; but I 
made up my mind to climb over it. Clinging to sharp edges 
of rock, I began the climb. Half way up, a roar of voices 
sounded from the plain below. I felt for a safer hand-hold 
and looked down. About the policeman at the foot of the 
cliff was grouped the party of Europeans, gazing upward — 
certain now, no doubt, of their earlier belief that I was a 
madman who had escaped from his guardians. Before they 
had gone one fourth the distance around the mountain, I 
had reached the top, while they had still many a weary mile 
to travel. 

The view that spread out from the top of that mountain 
was one that might have awakened the envy of the tourists 
below. North and south stretched sand-colored hills, deep 



156 Working My Way Around the World 



and brilliant vermilion in the valleys, the highest peaks 
splashed blood-red by the sunshine. Below lay the plain of 
Thebes, its thick green carpet weighted down by a few farm 
villages and the great heavy playthings of an ancient people. 




The Egyptian fellah dwells in a hut of reeds and mud 

As I looked off before me, an old saying came to my mind : 
" Egypt is the Nile." Clinging tightly to the life-giving 
river, easily seen in that clear air for a hundred miles, the 
slender hand of Egypt looked like a spotless ribbon of rich- 
est green, following every curve of the Father of Waters. 
All else to the east and to the west was nothing but an end- 
less sea of choking yellow sand. 

I* climbed down, and spent the afternoon among the ruins 
at the edge of the plain. I had examined almost everything 



A Trip Up the Nile 157 

before the tourists, worn out and drooping from a day in the 
saddle, overtook me, and I went on before them to the bank 
of the river. There they shook me off, however. The 
guides in charge of the party snarled in anger when I offered 
to pay for crossing the river in the company boat. There 
was nothing else for me to do, much as I disliked the idea, 
but to be ferried over with the donkeys. 

I left next day on the train for Assuan, and reached that 
place in time to hear the afternoon concert. I was now 
nearly six hundred miles from the last " hotel " for homeless 
wanderers, and I was again obliged to go to a native inn and 
to put up with the companionship of half -savage Arabians. 
But my bedroom on the roof was airy, and the bawling of 
the priest who stood on the balcony of a Mohammedan 
church steeple calling out the hour of prayer awoke me 
early enough to see the glorious sunrise of a new day. 

Some miles beyond Assuan lay the new dam, where there 
was work for any one who wanted it. Just how far, I 
could not know ; neither did I know that it was connected 
with the village by rail. From morning till high noon I 
clawed my way along the ragged rocks overhanging the 
weakened falls of the river, before I came in sight of the 
great dam that had robbed them of their waters. 

This dam was built by the British for the purpose 
of irrigating the surrounding country. Among the rocks 
in what was once the bed of the Nile sat a dozen 
wooden shanties for the workmen. But I had arrived too 
late. The superintendent of the work told me that the dam 
had been completed that very day, and he and his men were 
going back to England in the morning. 

I still had left fifty piasters, so I decided to push on up 
the Nile. 



158 Working My Way Around the World 

I came to the end of the railway. But steamers left twice 
a week from Shellal, a town above the dam. At the landing 
a swarm of natives were loading a rickety old barge, and a 
native agent was dozing behind the bars of a home-made 
ticket-office. 

' Yes," he yawned, in answer to my question ; " there is 
to-night leaving steamer. Soon be here. The fare is two 
hundred fifty piasters." 

" Two hundred! " I gasped. " Why, that must be first- 
class." 

" Yes, very first-class. But gentleman not wish travel 
second-class? " 

" Certainly not. Give me a third-class ticket." 

The Egyptian jumped to his feet and stared at me through 
the bars.. 

" What say gentleman ? Third-class ! No ! No ! Not 
go third-class. Second-class one hundred thirty piasters 
very poor." 

" But there is a third-class, is n't there? " 

" Third-class go. Forty piasters. But only for Arabs. 
White man never go third-class. Not give food, not give 
sleep, not ride on steamer; ride on barge there, tied to 
steamer with string. All gentlemen telling me must have 
European food. Gentlemen not sleep with boxes and horses 
on barge? Very Arab; very bad smell." 

" Yes, I know ; but give me a third-class ticket," I inter- 
rupted, counting out forty piasters. 

The native blinked, sat down sadly on his stool, and with 
a sigh reached for a ticket. Suddenly his face lighted up, 
and he pushed my money back to me. 

" If white man go third-class," he crowed, " must have 
pass. Not can sell ticket without." 



A Trip Up the Nile 159 

" But how can I get a pass? " 

" There is living English colonel with fort the other side 
of Assuan. Can get pass from him." 

I hurried away to the railroad station. The fare to 
Assuan was a few cents, and one train went each way during 
the afternoon. But it made the up trip first! I struck out 
on foot down the railroad, raced through Assuan, and tore 
my way to the fort, which was three miles below the village. 
A squad of black men dressed in khaki uniforms flourished 
their bayonets uncomfortably near my ribs. I bawled out 
my errand in Arabic, and an officer waved the guard aside. 

" The colonel is sleeping now," he said ; " come this even- 
ing." 

" But I want a pass for this evening's steamer." 

" We cannot wake the colonel." 

" Is there no one else who can sign the order? " 

" Only the colonel. Come this evening." 

Pass or no pass, I would not be cheated out of a journey 
into the Soudan. I threw my knapsack over my shoulder 
again, and pranced off for the third time on the ten-mile 
course between Assuan and Shellal. Night was falling as I 
rushed through Assuan. When I stepped aside to let the 
down train pass, my legs wabbled under me like two rubber 
tires from which half the air had escaped. The screech of a 
steamboat whistle resounded through the Nile valley as I 
came in sight of the lights of Shellal. I broke into a run, 
falling now and then on the uneven ground. 

The sky was clear, but there was no moon, and the night 
was black in spite of the stars. The deck-hands were al- 
ready casting off the shore lines of the barge, and the 
steamer was churning the shallow water. I pulled off my 
coat, threw it over my head after the fashion in which the 



160 Working My Way Around the World 




Soudan steamer on the Nile : A Soudanese cavalry soldier with whom 
I shared a blanket on the way up to Wady Haifa 

Egyptian fellah wears his gown after nightfall, and dashed 
toward the ticket office. 

" A ticket to Wady Haifa," I gasped in Arabic, trying to 
imitate the timid tone of the Egyptian peasant. 

For once, I saw a native hurry. The agent glanced at 
the money, snatched a ticket, and thrust it through the bars, 
crying: "Hurry up; the boat is go — " But the white 
hand that clutched the ticket showed him who I was. He 






. 



A Trip Up the Nile 161 

sprang to the door with a howl : " Stop ! It 's the faran- 
chee ! Come back — " 

I caught up my knapsack as I ran, made a flying leap at 
the slowly moving barge, and landed on all fours under the 
feet of a troop of horses. 

An Arab who stood grinning at me as I picked myself up 
seemed to be the only man on the craft who had noticed how 
suddenly I had boarded the vessel. He was dressed in na- 
tive clothes, save for a tightly buttoned khaki jacket which 
he wore over his gown. His legs were bare, his feet thrust 
into red slippers. About his head was wound a large turban 
of red and white checks; on each cheek were the scars of 
three long gashes ; in the top of his right ear hung a large 
silver ring. 

The scars and ring showed him to be a Nubian ; the jacket, 
an officer of cavalry ; the bridle in his hand showed him to 
be care-taker of the horses; and of course his name was 
Maghmood ! 

We became great chums, Maghmood and I, before the 
journey ended. By night w 7 e shared the same blanket; by 
day he would have divided the lunch in his saddle-bag with 
me had I been without food. But the black men who 
trooped down to each landing with baskets of native food 
kept me supplied with all I needed. Maghmood told me 
tales of the time he was in the battle-field with Kitchener, in 
a clear-cut Arabic that even a faranchee could understand; 
and, except for the five periods each day when he stood bare- 
foot at his prayers, he was as pleasant a companion as any 
one from the Western world could have been. 

When morning broke I climbed a rickety ladder to the 
upper deck. It was so closely packed from rail to rail with 
Arabs huddled together that a poodle could not have found 



162 Working My Way Around the World 

room to sit on his haunches. I climbed still higher, and 
came out upon the roof of the barge. No one else was 
there. From that height I could view the vast moving 
picture of the Nile. 

There was nothing growing on its banks. The fertile 




Arab passengers on the Nile steamer. Except when saying their 
prayers, they scarcely move once a day 

strips of green fed by the dippers and the squawking water- 
wheels had been left behind. Except for a few tiny oases, 
the desert had pushed its way to the very water's edge, 
here sloping down in beaches of the softest sand, there fall- 
ing sheer into the stream in rugged, rocky cliffs. Yet some- 
where in this yellow wilderness a hardy people found a liv- 
ing. Now and then a dark-faced peasant waved a hand or 
a tattered flag from the shore, and the steamer ran her nose 
high up on the beach to pick up the bale of produce that he 



A Trip Up the Nile 163 

rolled down the slope. At every landing a troop of dark 
barbarians sprang up from a sandy nowhere, making in the 
gorgeous sunlight wild-looking shadows as black as their 
leathery skins. 

We tied up at Wady Haifa after nightfall. I landed the 
next morning. In two days I saw everything there was to 
see in Wady Haifa, and decided to return to Cairo. 

On a Monday morning I boarded the steamer Cleopatra 
as a deck passenger, and drifted lazily down the Nile for 
five days, landing here and there with the tourists Of the 
upper deck to visit a temple or a mud village. In Cairo, at 
the Asile Rudolph, Captain Stevenson welcomed me with 
open arms. A day later I called on the superintendent of 
the railway, and, armed with a pass to Port Said, bade the 
capital farewell. 



CHAPTER XIV 

STEALING A MARCH ON THE FAR EAST 

All through that month of February in Cairo I studied 
the posters of the steamship companies to learn what ships 
were sailing eastward; for I hoped to get work on one of 
them as a sailor, and continue my trip around the world. 
While I was in the train on my way to Port Said, I saw 
four giant steamers gliding southward through the canal, 
so close that I could read from my window the books in 
the hands of the passengers under the awnings. How for- 
tunate those people seemed to me! They were already on 
their way east, while I w r as still crawling slowly along the 
edge of the desert. Gladly would I have exchanged places 
with the dirtiest workman on board. 

I wanted to go to Bombay; but I should have been glad 
to escape from that neck of sand in almost any direction. 
Not that there were n't ships enough — they passed the canal 
in hundreds every week. But their sailors were yellow men 
or brown, and they anchored well out in the middle of the 
stream, where a white sailor might not go to ask for work. 

All this I thought of as I crawled through the African 
desert behind a wheezing locomotive. But one solemn 
promise I made to myself before the first hut of Port Said 
bobbed up across the sand — that I would escape from this 
place somehow, on something, be it coal-barge or raft, before 
its streets and alleys became such eye-sores as had once those 
of Marseilles. 

I reached Port Said. After dinner I hurried away to the 

164 



_ 



Stealing a March on the Far East 165 

shipping quarter. As I had expected, no sailors were 
wanted. I went to ask advice of the American consul. 

" A man without money in this place," he said, " is here 
to stay, I fear. We have n't signed on a sailor since I was 
sent here. If you ever make a get-away, it will be by hiding 
on one of the steamers. I can't advise you to do it, of 
course. But if I were in your shoes I 'd stow away on the 
first boat homeward bound, and do it at once r before summer 
comes along and sends you to the hospital." 

Early the next morning I saw a great steamer nosing her 
way among the smaller boats that swarmed about the 
mouth of the canal. She looked so much like the Warzvick- 
shire that I half expected to see my former messmates peer- 
ing over her rail. I made out the name on her bow as she 
dropped anchor in the middle of the canal. Then I turned 
to a near-by poster to find out more about her. 

" S. S. Worcestershire/' ran the notice. " Largest, fast- 
est steamer sailing from England to British Burma. First- 
class passengers only. Fare to Colombo, one hundred 
eighty dollars." 

A sister ship of the vessel that had brought me from Mar- 
seilles! The very sight of her made me think of the prime 
roasts we had had while crossing the Mediterranean. I hur- 
ried down to the landing-stage, and spoke to the officers as 
they left the ship with the tourists for a run ashore. 

" Full up, Jack," answered one of them. 

I thought of the advice the American consul had given 
me. A better craft to hide on would never drop anchor in 
the canal. Bah ! I could never get on board. The black- 
est night could not hide such rags as mine! Besides, the 
steamer was sure to load on coal and be gone within a couple 
of hours. 



166 Working My Way Around the World 

A native fair was going on at the far end of town. I be- 
came so interested in watching the snake-charmers and danc- 
ers that I soon forgot all about the ship I had seen that 
morning. 

Darkness was falling when I strolled back toward the har- 
bor. At the shop where mutton sold cheaply I stopped for 
supper ; but the keeper had put up his shutters. Hungrily I 
wandered on toward the main street that bordered the canal, 
and stopped stock-still in astonishment. There before me, 
cutting off the view of the buildings across the canal, the 
vast bulk of the Worcestershire was still standing. 

What a chance — if I could once get on board ! Perhaps 
I might! But an official would be sure to halt me if I tried 
to do it. I must have some good excuse to offer him for be- 
ing rowed out to the steamer. If only I had something to 
be delivered on board : a basket of fruit, or — exactly ! — a 
letter of introduction. 

Breathlessly I dashed into the reading-room of the Cath- 
olic Sailors' Home, snatched a sheet of paper and an en- 
velope, and scribbled a letter asking for work of any kind on 
board the ship. Then I sealed the envelope and addressed it 
in a bold hand to the chief steward of the ship. 

But my knapsack? Certainly I could not carry that on 
board ! I dumped its contents on the floor, snatched my 
camera and papers, and thrust them into an inside pocket. 
There was nothing else. With my faded clothes in the 
shadow, I would look like one of the passengers. Many 
an English lord, traveling in the East, wears a cap after 
nightfall. 

In high excitement I rushed down to the dock. The 
Worcestershire was still there. Two Arab boatmen 
squatted under a torch on one corner of the landing-place, 



Stealings March on the Far East 167 

waiting to row passengers out to the steamer. They 
charged sixpence. I had three. It cost me some precious 
moments to beat down one of them. He stepped into his 
boat at last, and pushed off cautiously toward the row of 
lighted port-holes. 

As we drew near the steamer I made out a figure in uni- 
form on the lowest step of the ship's ladder. The game was 
lost! I certainly could not pass this bridge officer. 

My oarsman swung his boat against the ladder with a 
sweep of the oar. I held up the note. 

"Will you kindly deliver this to the chief steward?" I 
asked. " The writer wants an answer before the ship 
leaves." 

" I really have n't time," apologized the mate. " I 've an 
errand ashore, and we leave in fifteen minutes. You can 
run up with it yourself, though. Here, boatman, row me to 
the landing." 

I sprang up the ladder. Except for several East Indian 
workmen who jumped aside as I appeared, there was no one 
on the deck. From somewhere below came the sound of 
waltz music and the laughter of merry people. I strolled 
carelessly around to the other side of the deck, and walked 
aft in the shadow of the upper cabins. For some mo- 
ments I stood alone in the darkness, gazing at the streaks 
of light from the lower port-holes sparkling in the canal. 
Then a step sounded behind me — a heavy British step 
that came toward me for several paces, and then halted. 
One could almost tell by his walk that he was an officer of 
the ship ; one could certainly hear it in the gruff " Ahem ! " 
with which he cleared his throat. I waited in fear and 
trembling. 

A minute passed, then another. I turned my head, inch 



168 Working My Way Around the World 

by inch, and peered over my shoulder. In the dim light 
stood a man in faultless evening dress, gazing at me through 
the darkness between us. His dress looked like that of a 
passenger, but the very set of his feet on the deck proved 
that he was no landsman. It was the captain himself, 
surely! What under officer would dare appear out of uni- 
form on a voyage ? 

I turned away my head again, determined to bear the 
coming blow bravely. The dreaded being cleared his 
throat once more, stepped nearer, and stood for a moment 
without speaking. Then a hand touched me lightly on the 
sleeve. 

" Beg pahdon, sir/' murmured a very polite voice ; " beg 
pahdon, sir, but 'ave you 'ad dinner yet? The other gen- 
tlemen's h' all been served, sir.'' 

I swallowed my throat and turned around, laying a hand 
over the place where my necktie should have been. 

" I am not a passenger, my man," I replied scornfully; " I 
have a message for the chief steward." 

The servant stretched out his hand. 

" Oh, I cawn't send it, you know," I objected. " I must 
deliver it myself, for it requires an answer before the ship 
leaves." 

" Goodness, you can't see 'im" gasped the Briton ; " we 're 
givin' a dance, and 'e 's in the ball-room." 

The sound of our voices had attracted the quartermaster 
on duty. Behind him appeared a young steward. 

" You 'd best get ashore quick," said the sailor; " we 're 
only waitin' for the fourth mate. Best call a boatman or 
you '11 get carried off." 

" Really ! " I cried, looking anxiously about me. " But I 
must have an answer, you know ! " 



Stealing a March on the Far East 169 

" I could n't disturb *im" wheezed the older steward. 

" Well, show me where he is," I argued. 

" Now, we 're off in a couple o' winks," warned the quar- 
termaster. 

" 'Ere, mate," said the youth; " I '11 take you down." 

I followed him to the deck below, and along a lighted 
passageway. My make-up would never stand the bright 
glare of a ball-room. I thrust the note into the hands of my 
guide. 

" Be sure to bring me the answer," I cautioned. 

He pushed his way through a group of his mess-mates and 
disappeared into the drawing-room. A moment later he 
returned with the answer I had expected. 

" So you 're on the beach? " he grinned. " 'Ard luck. 
The chief says he has enough sailors, and the company rules 
don't allow 'im to take on a man to work 'is passage. S'y, 
you 've made a mistake anyway, though, ay n't you ? We 're 
not 'omeward bound ; we 're going out. You 'd best rustle 
it and get ashore." 

He turned into the cook-room of the ship. Never had I 
dared to hope that he would let me out of his sight before I 
left. His carelessness was due, probably, to his certainty 
that I had " made a mistake." I dashed out of the passage- 
way as if fearful of being carried off; but, once hidden in 
the kindly night, I paused to peer about me. 

Where was there a good place to hide? Inside a mat- 
tress in the steerage? But there was no steerage. The 
ship was first-class only. Down in the hold, where the 
cargo was stored? The doors covering the stairways lead- 
ing to it were all nailed down. In the coal-bunkers ? That 
would do very well in the depth of winter, but would be sure 
death in the heat of this country. In the forecastle, where 



170 Working My Way Around the World 

the sailors live ? Sure to be found in a few hours by tattle- 
tale natives. In the chain-locker? The anchor and chain 
might be dropped anywhere in the canal, and I should be 
dragged piecemeal through the hawse-hole. 

Still thinking rapidly, I climbed to the spot where I had 
first been seen. From the starboard side, forward, came the 
voice of the fourth mate, clambering on board. In a few 
moments officers and men would be flocking up from below. 
Noiselessly I sprang up the ladder to the highest deck. 
There was no one in sight. I crept to the nearest life-boat, 
and dragged myself along the edge that hung well out over 
the canal. I tugged at the canvas cover on the boat for a 
minute that seemed a century before I succeeded in making 
an opening. When it had loosened for a space of four feet, 
I thrust my head through. Inch by inch, I squirmed in, 
fearful of making the slightest noise. Only my feet re- 
mained outside when my hand struck an oar inside the 
boat. Its rattle could have been heard in Cairo. Drenched 
with perspiration, I waited for my discoverer. But the 
music, it seemed, held the attention of everybody on the 
ship. I drew in my feet by doubling up like a pocket-knife, 
and, thrusting a hand through the opening fastened the can- 
vas cover back in place. 

The space inside was too small. Seats, kegs, oars, and 
boat-hooks left me barely room to stretch out on my back 
without touching the canvas above me. Two officers 
brushed by, and called out their orders within six feet of me. 
I heard the rattle of the anchor-chain, and knew that the 
long trip through the canal had begun. 

When [ could breathe without opening my mouth at every 
gasp, I was forced to remember that I had had nothing to eat 
that afternoon. Within an hour my hunger was forgotten. 



Stealing a March on the Far East 171 

The sharp edge of a keg under my back, the oars under my 
hips, the seat that my shoulders barely reached, began to cut 
into my flesh, sending sharp pains through every limb. I 
dared not move for fear of sending some unseen article 
clattering. Worst of all, there was hardly room for my 
head, while I kept my neck strained to the utmost. The tip 
of my nose touched the canvas. To have stirred that ever 
so slightly would have landed me back on shore at the first 
canal station. 

The position grew more painful hour by hour; but after 
some time my body grew numb and I sank into a half- 
conscious state that was not sleeping. 

Daylight did not help matters, though in the sunshine 
that filtered through the canvas I could see the objects about 
me. There came the jabbering of strange tongues as the 
sailors quarreled over their work on the deck. Now and 
then there was a shout from a canal station that we were 
passing. Passengers climbing to the upper deck brushed 
against the life-boat as they took their walks. From time to 
time I heard them talking — telling what they were going to 
do when they reached India. 

It became so hot that all but the officers returned to the 
shade below. By noon the Egyptian sun, pouring down 
upon the canvas, had turned my hiding-place into an oven. 
A raging thirst had long since silenced my hunger. In the 
early afternoon, as I lay motionless, there sounded a splash 
of water close at hand. Two natives had been sent to 
wash the life-boat. For an hour they dashed bucketful 
after bucketful against it, splashing, now and then, even the 
canvas over my head. 

The gong had just sounded for afternoon tea when the 
ship began to rock slightly. Then came a faint sound of 



172 Working My Way Around the World 

waves breaking against her side. A light breeze moved the 
canvas ever so little, and the throb of the engines became 
louder. Had we passed out of the canal? I was about to 
tear at the canvas and bellow for water. But had we really 
left the Suez Canal behind? Was this, perhaps, only the 
Bitter Lakes? Or, if we had reached the Red Sea, the pilot 
might still be on board ! To be set ashore now would mean 
an endless tramp back through the burning desert to Port 
Said. 

I held myself quiet, and listened intently for any word that 
might show me our whereabouts. None came, but the set- 
ting sun and falling darkness brought coolness. The ship 
did not pitch as it did in the open sea. I made up my mind 
to wait a little longer. 

With night the passengers came again, to lean against 
my boat and tell their secrets. A dozen schemes, ranging 
from a plan for making Christians of all the Indias to the 
arrangement of a tiger hunt in the Assam hills, were told 
within my hearing during that motionless evening. But 
when music sounded from below they left the deck deserted, 
and I settled down to listen to the faint tread of the second 
mate, who paced the bridge above me. 

The night wore on. Less fearful, now, of being discov- 
ered, I moved, for the first time in thirty hours, and, rolling 
slowly on my side, fell asleep. It was broad daylight when 
I awoke to the sounding of two bells. The ship was roll- 
ing and pitching, now, in a way # that indicated plainly that 
we were on the open sea. I tugged at the canvas cover and 
peered out. My muscles were so stiff that I could not move 
for some moments. Even when I had wormed myself 
out, I came near losing my grip on the edge of the boat be- 
fore mv feet touched the rail. Once on deck, I waited to 



Stealing a March on the Far East 173 

be discovered. No land-lubber could have mistaken me for 
a passenger now. 

Calmly I walked toward the stairway, and climbed down 
to the second deck. A score of bare-legged brown men 
were " washing down." Near them, their overseer, in all 
the glory of embroidered jacket and rubber boots, strutted 
back and forth, fumbling at a silver chain about his neck. 
I strolled by them. The low-caste fellows sprang out of my 
way like startled cats ; their overseer gazed at me with an 
uncertain smile. If they were surprised they did not show 
it. Probably they were not. What was it to them if a 
sahib (white man) chose to turn out in a ragged hunting 
costume in the early morning? Stranger things than that 
they had seen among these queer beings with white skins. 
For some time I paced the deck without catching sight of a 
white face. At last a small son of Britain clambered un- 
steadily up the stairway, clinging tightly to a pot of tea. 

" Here, boy," I called. " Who 's on the bridge — the 
mate ? " 

" Yes, sir," stammered the boy, sidling away; " the mite, 
sir." 

" Well, tell him there 's a stowaway on board." 

" W'at 's that, sir ? You see, sir, I 'm a new cabin-boy, 
on me first trip — " 

" And you don't know what a stowaway is, eh ? " 

" No, sir." 

" If you '11 run along and tell the mate, you '11 find out 
soon enough." 

The boy mounted to the upper deck, clutching now and 
then at the rail. Judging from the grin on his face as he 
came running back, he had added a new word to his vocab- 
ulary. 



174 Working My Way Around the World. 

" The mite says for you to come up on the bridge quick. 
'E 's bloomin' mad." 

I climbed again to the hurricane-deck. The mate's anger 
had so overcome him that he had left his post and waited for 
me at the foot of the bridge-ladder. He was burly and 
heavy-jawed, bare-headed, bare-footed, his hairy chest 
showing, his duck trousers rolled up to his knees, and his 
thick tangle of disordered hair waving in the wind. With a 
ferocious scowl and set jaw, he glared at me in silence. 

" I 'm a sailor, sir," I began. " I was on the beach in 
Port Said. I 'm sorry, sir, but I had to get away — " 

The mate gave no other sign of having heard than to push 
his heavy jaw farther out. 

" There was no chance to sign on a ship there, sir. Not a 
man shipped in months, sir, and it 's a tough place to be on 
the beach — " 

" What has that got to do with me and my ship ! " roared 
the officer, springing several yards into the air,*and coming 
down to shake his sledge-hammer fist under my nose. " I '11 
give you six months for this directly we get to Colombo. 
You '11 stow away on my ship, will you ? Get down off this 
deck before I brain you with this bucket ! " 

Not certain as to what part of the Worcestershire he 
wanted me to go, I started forward. Another bellow 
brought me to a halt. 

" You — " But never mind what words he used. The 
new order was that I was to wait in the waist until the 
captain had seen me. 

I went down, snatched a swallow of luke-warm water at 
the pump, and leaned against the side of the ship. Too 
hungry to be greatly terrified, I had already taken new heart 
at the mate's words. " Colombo," he had said. Until then 



Stealing a March on the Far East 175 

I had feared that the Worcestershire, like most ships bound 
for East India, would put in at Aden in Arabia, and that I 
would be set ashore there. 

An hour, two hours, three hours, I stood in the waist, re- 
turning the stares of everybody on board, Hindu or English, 
who passed by me. With the sounding of eight bells a stew- 
ard came by with a can of coffee. Once started, an endless 
procession of bacon, steaks, and ragouts filed by under my 
nose. It was almost more than I could bear. To snatch at 
one of the pans would have been my undoing. I thrust my 
head over the railing, where the sea breezes blew, and stared 
at the sand billows on the Arabian coast. Not until the 
last of the dishes had passed by did I dare to turn around 
once more. 

" Peggy," the steward's cook, peered cautiously out upon 
me. " Eh, mite," he whispered ; " 'ad anything to eat yet ? " 

" Not lately." 

" Well, come inside. There 's a pan o' scow left to 
dump." 

Very little of it was dumped that morning. 

I had barely returned to my place when four officers came 
down a ladder to the waist. They were led by the mate, 
carefully dressed now in a snow-white uniform. His lan- 
guage, too, had improved. A " sir " falling from his lips 
showed me which of his companions was the captain. My 
hopes rose at once at sight of the latter. He was a very 
different sort of man from his first officer. Small, neat, 
and quick of movement, his iron-gray hair gave setting to a 
face that showed both kindliness and strength. I knew I 
should be treated with fairness. 

The officers pretended they did n't see me. They 
mounted the ladder and strolled slowly along the deck, ex- 



176 Working My Way Around the World 

amining as they went. Peggy came to the door of the 
kitchen with the dish-cloth in his hands. 

" Morning h'inspection," he explained in a husky whisper. 
" They '11 be back here directly they 've looked over the 
other side. The little feller 's the captain. 'E 's all right." 

" Hope he lives out the voyage, 1 ' I muttered. 

" The fat jolly chap 's the chief steward," went on Peggy. 
,4 Best man on the ship. The long un 's the doctor." 

The officers continued examining the ship for things that 
needed repairing. They came back toward the waist, and 
halted several times within a few feet of me to look over 
some part of the ship's machinery or furnishings. When 
the scuppers had been ordered cleaned and the pump had 
been pronounced in proper condition, the mate turned to the 
captain and pointed angrily at me : 

" There he is, sir." 

" Ah," said the captain. " What was your object, young 
man, in stowing yourself away on this vessel ? " 

I began the story I had tried to tell the first officer. The 
captain heard it all without interrupting me. 

" Yes, I know," he said, when I had finished. " Port 
Said is a very unfortunate place in which to be left without 
money. But why did you not come on board and ask per- 
mission to work your passage? " 

"I did, sir!" I cried. "That's just what I did! I 
brought a letter to the chief steward. That 's how I came 
on board, sir." 

" That 's so ! " put in the " fat jolly chap " ; " he sent a 
note to me in the drawing-room. But I sent back word that 
we had all the men we needed." 

" I see," replied the captain thoughtfully. " You 're the 
first man that ever stowed away on a vessel under mv com- 



Stealing a March on the Far East 177 

mand," he went on almost sadly. ' You make yourself 
liable to severe punishment, you know? " 

" I 'd put him in irons and send him up, sir," burst out the 
mate. 

" N — no," returned the captain ; " that would n't be 
right, Dick. You know Port Said. But you know you will 
have to work on the voyage," he added, turning to me. 

" Why, certainly, sir," I cried, suddenly beginning to fear 
that he might see through my coat the camera that contained 
a likeness of his ship. 

" You told the chief officer you were a sailor, I believe? " 

" A. B., sir — and steward." 

" Have you anything you can put him at, Chester? " he 
asked the steward. 

" I 've more men than I can use now," replied the steward. 

" Beg pardon, sir," put in the mate; " but the chief engi- 
neer says he can use an extra man down below." 

He was a kindly fellow, was the mate. He wanted to 
force me to shovel coal into the furnace. Not only was the 
place an oven in that climate, but the Hindu firemen would 
have made life very disagreeable for me had I been sent to 
work among them. 

" No, no," answered the commander. " The man is a 
sailor and a steward ; he is not a stoker. You had better 
take him on deck with you, Dick." 

He started up the ladder. 

" Huh," muttered the mate, " I know what I 'd do with 
him if I was in command." 

" Take him on board with you, Dick," repeated the cap- 
tain, from above. " Get something to eat now, my man, and 
report to the chief officer, forward, when you have finished." 

" I '11 send you down a couple of cotton suits," whispered 



178 Working My Way Around the World 

the steward, before he followed the captain up the ladder; 
" you '11 die with that outfit on." 

I stayed in the kitchen long enough to eat breakfast, and 
then hurried forward. The mate, scowling, began asking 
me question after question as rapidly as he could. Perhaps 
he wanted to find out whether I had told the truth when I 
said I had been a sailor. 

" Box the compass," he snarled suddenly. 

I did so. For an hour he gave me a severe examination. 

"Umph!" he growled at last. " Take that holy-stone 
with the handle " — it weighed a good thirty pounds — " and 
go to polishing the poop. You '11 work every day from six 
in the morning till seven at night, with a half -hour off for 
your meals. From four to six in tlie morning, and from 
eight to ten at night, you '11 keep watch in the crow's-nest, 
and save us two natives. On Sunday you '11 keep watch 
from four to eight, nine to twelve, two to seven, and eight 
to ten. Look lively now, and see that the poop begins to 
shine before I get there." 

From that time on, the mate rarely gave me a word. 
Without a break I toiled at the task he had given me as long 
as the voyage lasted. The holy-stone took on great weight, 
but the view I had from the crow's-nest of every tropical 
sunrise and sunset I would not have exchanged for a seat 
at the captain's table. My mess-mates were good-hearted, 
and the chief steward was friendly and kind. But the 
Hindu crew tried to make life unpleasant for me. Few 
were the moments when a group of the brown rascals were 
not hovering about me, chattering like apes and grinning 
impudently. The proudest man on board was the over- 
seer; for it was through him that the mate sent me his 
orders. Since the days when he rolled naked and un- 



Stealing a March on the Far East 179 

ashamed on the sand floor of his native hut, he had dreamed 
of no greater happiness than the power to give commands 
to a sahib. 

Ten days the Worcestershire steamed on through a mo- 
tionless sea, under a sun that became more torrid every hour. 
The kitchen became too hot to live in. Men who had 
waded through the snow on the docks of Liverpool two 
weeks before took to sleeping on the deck in the thinnest of 
clothing. On the eleventh evening we were certain that 
there was an odor of land in the air. Before morning broke 
I had climbed again to the crow's-nest. With the first gray 
streak of dawn I could see the dim outline of a low mountain 
range, colored by the gleam of sunrise behind it. Slowly the 
mountains faded from view as the lowlands beneath them 
rose up to greet us. 

By eight bells we could see a score of naked black-brown 
islanders paddling boldly seaward in their queer outrigger 
canoes. The Worcestershire glided past a far-reaching 
break-water, and, steaming among a school of smaller boats 
and vessels, rode to an anchorage in the center of the harbor. 
A crowd swarmed on board, and in the rush and noise I left 
my stone and hurried below to pack my " shore bundle." 
Through the kindness of the chief steward, I was well sup- 
plied with cotton suits. I returned to the captain, got his 
permission to leave, tossed my bundle into the company 
launch, and, with one English half-penny jingleless in my 
pocket, set foot on the green island of Ceylon. 



CHAPTER XV 

IN THE LAND OF THE WANDERING PRINCE 

The scenery that met my gaze as I moved through the 
streets of Colombo seemed much like that of some great 
painting. The golden sunshine, the rich green, the dark 
bodies moving here and there among figures clad in snowy 
white, were more colorful than I had ever imagined. At 
noonday the fiery sun beat down on me so unmercifully that 
I sought shelter in a neighboring park. There I dreamed 
away my first day's freedom from the holy-stone. A na- 
tive runner awoke me toward nightfall, and thrust into my 
hands a card. On it was printed an advertisement of a 
" Sailors' Boarding House of Colombo, Proprietor Al- 
meida." I found it easily. It was a two-story building, 
with stone floor, but otherwise of the lightest wooden ma- 
terial. The dining-room, in the center of the building, had 
no roof. Narrow, windowless rooms in the second story 
faced this open space. These housed the sailors who 
stayed there. 

Almeida, who kept the boarding-house, was a Singhalese 
who belonged to a higher class or caste than certain other 
natives of Ceylon. In proof of this he wore tiny pearl 
earrings and a huge circle comb. His hair was gray, and 
being thin did not hold the comb in position very long at a 
time. It dropped on the floor behind him so often that he 
had a little brown boy follow him about all day with noth- 
ing else to do but to pick it up for him. Almeida wore a 
white silk jacket decorated with red braid and glistening 

180 



In the Land of the Wandering Prince 181 

brass buttons, and a skirt of the gayest plaid. His feet 
were bare, and his toes spread out so that they pointed in 
five different directions. 

I signed a note promising to pay for my room and board 
after I had earned the money, and was made a guest in the 
Sailors' Boarding House. Four white men and as many 
black leaned their elbows on the board used for a table, and 
waited for the evening meal. In a cave near by, two brown 
men were sitting on their heels, stirring something in a 
kettle over a fire of sticks. After a time they ceased stir- 
ring, and began chattering like monkeys in high, squeaky 
voices. Suddenly they became silent, dashed through the 
smoke in the cave, and dragged the steaming kettle forth 
into the dining-room. One of them scooped out the steam- 
ing rice and filled our plates. The younger ran back into 
the smoky cave and snatched up a smaller pot containing 
chopped fish. Besides this, we had bananas and drinking 
water that was saltish, discolored, and lukewarm. 

The cooks gave us each a tin spoon, then filled a battered 
basin with rice, and, squatting on their heels, began eating 
their own supper with their fingers. The wick that floated 
in a bottle of oil lighted up only one corner of the table, and 
the rising moon, falling upon the naked figures, cast strange 
shadows across the uneven floor. 

I laid my head on a hand to show that I was getting" 
sleepy, and one of the cooks led the way to the second 
story and into one of the narrow rooms. It was furnished 
with three low wooden tables having queerly curved legs. 
I asked for my bed. But the cook spoke no English, and I 
sat down and waited for my room-mates. 

A long hour afterward two white men stumbled up the 
stairs. The first carried a candle high above his head. He 



182 Working My Way Around the World 

was lean, gray-haired, and clean-shaven. The other man 
was a heavy, yellow-haired Swede. 

"Oho! Ole," grinned the older man, "here's a new 
bunkie. Why don't you turn in, mate?" 

" I have n't found my bed yet," I answered. 




A Singhalese woman stops 



ive her children a bath 



" Your bed ! " cried the newcomer. " Why, you 're sit- 
ting on it." 

I followed the example of the others — undressed and 
put on a thin garment that I found hanging over my " bed." 
Then, using my bundle of clothing for a pillow, I lay down 
upon the table and sweated out the night. 

Over the tea, bananas, and cakes of ground cocoanut that 
we had for breakfast, we told each other how we happened 



In the Land of the Wandering Prince 183 

to be in that part of the world. The Swede was merely a 
sailor. But the older man was an Irishman named John 
Askins, once a professor in the Dublin University, who 
had been obliged to give up his work because of poor 
health. 

Before many days had passed I had found work. An 
Englishman had advertised for a carpenter, and for three 
days following I superintended the labors of a band of 
coolies in laying a hardwood floor in his bungalow. 

After the work was finished I set off early one morning 
for a trip into the interior of the island. At about noon 
I reached the open country. Tropical plant life ran wild 
over all the land. In the black shadows swarmed naked 
human beings. But the highway was wide, as well built as 
those in Europe, and closely bordered on both sides by thick 
forests of towering palm trees. Here and there bands of 
coolies repaired the roadway or fought back the war-like 
vegetation with ax-like knives. 

Clumsy, heavy-wheeled carts, covered like a gypsy wagon, 
creaked slowly by behind humped oxen. At first sight the 
roof seemed made of canvas, but as the vehicle came nearer 
I saw that it was made of thousands of leaves sewn to- 
gether. Under it the scrawny driver grinned cheerily and 
mumbled some strange words of greeting. The glare of 
sunshine was dazzling ; a wrist uncovered for a moment was 
burned as red as if it had been branded, and my face shone 
browner in the mirror of each passing stream. 

In the forest there were the slim bamboo, the broad- 
leafed banana tree, and most of all the cocoanut-palm. Na- 
tives armed with heavy knives clasped the trees like mon- 
keys and walked up the slender trunks. Then, hiding them- 
selves in the bunch of leaves sixty feet above, they chopped 



184 Working My Way Around the. World 

off the nuts, which struck the soft spongy earth and re- 
bounded high into the air. All through the forest sounded 
this dull, muffled thump, thump, thump of falling cocoa- 
nuts. 

In the middle of the afternoon, as I lay resting on a 
grassy slope under shady palms, I heard a crackling of 
twigs; and, turning around, I met a pair of eyes peering 
wonderingly at me. I nodded encouragingly. A native, 
dressed in a ribbon and a tangle of oily hair, stepped from 
behind a great drooping banana leaf and came slowly and 
timidly toward me. Behind him tiptoed about twenty 
naked men and boys. They moved toward me smilingly 
like stage dancers, but pausing often to make signs meant 
to encourage one another. How different was their be- 
havior from that of the quarrelsome Arab! It seemed as 
if a harsh word or cross look on my part would send these 
simple countrymen scampering away through the forest. 
A white man is a tin god in Ceylon. 

When they saw that I was not ill-natured, the natives 
gurgled some words of greeting and squatted in a half- 
circle at the foot of the slope on which I lay. We chatted 
in the language of signs. They seemed to be interested in 
my pipe. When it had burned out I turned it over to the 
leader. He passed it on to his companions. To my hor- 
ror, they began testing the strange thing by thrusting the 
stem half way down their throats and sucking fiercely at it. 
After that they fell to examining the articles in my knap- 
sack. When I took my camera from them, they begged 
me with tears in their eyes to allow them to open it. To 
turn their attention from it I began inquiring about their 
tools and betel-nut pouches. They offered to give me every 
article that I asked to see; and then sneaked round behind 



In the Land of the Wandering Prince 185 

me to carry off the gift while I was examining another. 

I rose to continue my way, but the natives burst out beg- 
ging me to stay, and, sending three boys on some unknown 
errand, squatted about me again and fell to preparing new 
chews of betel-nuts. The boys soon returned, one carry- 
ing a jack-fruit, another a bunch of bananas, and the third 
swinging three green cocoanuts by their rope-like stems. 
The leader laid the gifts, one after another, at my feet. 
Two men with jungle knives sprang forward, and, while 
one hacked at the hard jack-fruit, the other caught up a 
cocoanut, chopped off the top with one stroke, and invited 
me to drink. The milk was cool and refreshing, but the 
meat of the green nut was as tough as a leather strap. The 
jack-fruit, which looked much like a watermelon, was at 
last split into long slices. These in turn split sidewise 
into dozens of parts like those of an orange. The meat 
itself was white and rather tasteless. The bananas were 
small, but delicious. When I had sampled each of the gifts, 
I distributed them among the givers and turned down to 
the highway. 

Night had no terrors for me in Ceylon. When it grew 
too dark for tramping, I had only to lie down on the grass 
under my feet, sleep peacefully in the warm breeze that blew 
over me, and rise refreshed with the new dawn. 

I was twenty miles from the city when I rose from my 
first forest lodging and set out on my second day's tramp 
before the country people were astir. Now and then the 
road left the encircling palm trees and crossed a small roll- 
ing plain. I came upon little villages with every mile — 
rambling two-row hamlets of bamboo. Between them 
lonely cottages with roofs made of grasses and reeds peeped 
from beneath the trees. 



i86 Working My Way Around the World 

As the sun climbed higher, grinning groups of country- 
men pattered by. Half the houses along the way offered 
the fruits of the forest and tea and cocoanut cakes for 
sale. Before every hut, however wretched, stood an earth- 
enware vessel of water, beside which hung, for use as a 
drinking-vessel, the half of a cocoanut-shell. So I did not 
have to go hungry or thirsty long at a time. 

Bathing seemed to be the national sport of Ceylon. 
Every stream I passed was alive with splashing natives. 
Mothers, walking from one village to another, halted at 
every stream to roll a banana leaf into a cone-shaped bucket 
and pour gallons of water on their sputtering babies, 
crouched naked on the bank. Travelers on foot or by ox- 
cart took a dip every hour or so along the way. The 
farmer left his plowing often to plunge into the nearest 
water-hole. His wife, instead of calling on her neighbors, 
met them at the brook, and gossiped with them as she 
splashed about in cool and comfort. The men, wearing 
only a loin-cloth, paid no attention to their clothing. The 
women, wound from their knees to their arms in sheets of 
snowy white, came out of the water, and after turning them- 
selves round and round in the blazing sunshine, marched 
home in dry garments. 

On the third day I came to foot-hills covered with tea 
plantations. Beyond these hills the highway climbed up 
some low mountains. At the top I paused at a little way- 
side shop built of rubbish picked up in the forest. A board, 
stretched like a counter across the open doorway, was 
heavily laden with bananas. Near at hand a brown woman 
was spreading out grain with her feet. Unfortunately, I 
had forgotten to ask my friends at the Sailors' Boarding 
House the Singhalese words for " How much? " I pointed 



In the Land of the Wandering Prince 187 




The yogi who ate twenty-eight of the bananas at a sitting 

at the fruit and tossed on the counter a coin. It was a cop- 
per piece worth one and three fourths cents — enough 
surely, to pay for half a dozen bananas, I thought. The 



i88 Working My Way Around the World 

woman carefully picked up the coin, and, turning it over 
and over in her hand, stared at me with wide-open eyes. 
Had I been stingy? I was thrusting my hand into my 
pocket for another copper, when the woman motioned to 
me to open my knapsack. Then she dropped into it three 
dozen bananas, paused a moment thoughtfully, and added 
another bunch. 

A short distance beyond, I sat down in the shade and be- 
gan eating the fruit in order to lighten my burden. An 
old man, blacker than anybody I had met that day, came 
wandering past. A strip of cloth covered with red and 
yellow stripes was wrapped round his waist and fell to his 
knees. Over his head was folded a sheet of orange color. 
In each hand he carried a bundle tied with green vines. 
The upper part of his face looked shy. The lower half 
was totally covered with a heavy tangled beard deeply 
streaked with gray. 

He limped painfully to the roadside, and squatted on 
his heels at the edge of the shade. Plainly, he too was 
" on the road." 

" Have a bite? " I invited, pushing the fruit toward him. 

A child's voice squeaked within him. Gravely he rose 
to his feet and began bowing, expressing his thankfulness 
in every motion possible except that of standing on his 
head. This over, he fell to eating with both hands so 
willingly that, with never a pause or a choke, he made away 
with twenty-eight bananas. Small wonder he slept awhile 
in the edge of the shade before going on. 

I rose to plod on, and he would not be. left behind — far 
behind, that is. I could not induce him to walk beside me; 
he pattered always two paces in the rear. From the motions 
and signs he made in answer to my questions, I learned 



In the Land of the Wandering Prince 189 

that he was journeying to some place of worship in the 
mountains. Two hours beyond our meeting-place, he 
halted at a branch road, knelt in the highway, and, before 
I knew what he was going to do, pressed a loud kiss on the 
top of one of my Nazarene slippers. Only a quick move- 
ment on my part saved the other from the same fate. He 
stood up slowly, almost sadly, as if he were grieved to part 
from good company, — or bananas, — shook the dust of the 
road out of his beard, and, turning into the forest-choked 
path, was gone. 

Night falling over the mountains overtook me just as 
I came near a thatched roof at the roadside. The owner 
took no pay for my lodging, and the far-off howling of 
dogs lulled me to sleep. 

With dawn I was off once more. Sunrise waved greet- 
ings over the leafy trees as I entered the ancient city of 
Kandy. 

Hundreds of years ago this mountain city was the seat 
of the native king. To-day the ruler of Ceylon is a bluff 
Englishman who lives in a stone mansion within sight of 
the harbor of Colombo. Nevertheless, a descendant of the 
native king still lives in the capital of his forefathers. But 
his duties have narrowed down to that of keeping alive the 
religion of Gautama, the Buddha, or the wandering prince. 

This prince lived more than twenty-four hundred years 
ago. He taught that if men are not very good indeed while 
living, after death they will have to live again and again in 
the shape of some animal, and later of some human being, 
until they at last learn to be pure. For thousands of years 
the natives of Ceylon and India have followed his teaching. 
That explains why they worship animals, and why there 
are so many classes or castes of people in India. 



190 Working My Way Around the World 

Although Buddha did not consider himself holy, his fol- 
lowers have built temples in his honor and worshiped him 
since his death. Hundreds of years ago, it is said, there 
was found in Burma one of the teeth of this prince. This 
was sent a long distance to the egg-shaped island of Ceylon, 




The thatch roof at the roadside, under which I slept on the second 
night of my tramp to Kandy 

and over it was built the famous " Temple of the Tooth." 
It was this temple that I had come to visit, although I was 
not sure that I should be allowed to enter. 

The keeper of the inn where I stopped had two sons who 
spoke English. The older was a youth of fifteen. We 
became friends at once. 

" Have you, I wonder, visited our Temple of the Tooth? " 
he asked. 

" Outside," I answered. " Are sahibs allowed to en- 
ter?" 



In the Land of the Wandering Prince 191 

" Surely!" cried the youth. "We are joyed to have 
white men visit our temples. To-night we are having a 
service very important in the Temple of the Tooth. With 
my uncle, who keeps the cloth-shop across the way, I shall 
go. Will you not forget your religion and honor us by 
coming? " 

" With pleasure," I answered. 

Two flaring torches threw fantastic shadows over the 
chattering crowd of natives that lifted us bodily up the 
broad stairway to the outer temple. At the top of the 
stairs surged a noisy multitude, each and every one of them 
carrying a candle, a bit of cardboard, or the lotus-flower, 
to lay in the lap of his favorite statue. From every nook 
and corner, the image of the wandering prince looked on 
with sadness. 

Of all the crowd I alone was shod. I dropped my slip- 
pers at the landing, and, half expecting a stern command 
to remove my socks, walked into the brighter light of the 
interior. 

A whisper arose beside me, and swelled louder as it 
passed quickly from mouth to mouth : " Sahib ! sahib ! " I 
had dreaded lest my coming should cause them to turn an- 
grily upon me; but Buddha himself, arriving thus unex- 
pectedly, could not have won more boisterous welcome. 
The worshipers swept down upon me, shrieking gladly. 
Several thrust into my hands the blossoms they had meant 
for Buddha. One pressed upon me a badly rolled cigar of 
native make. From every side came candles and matches. 

At the tinkle of a far-off bell the natives fell back, leav- 
ing a lane for our passing. Two priests in yellow robes, 
smiling and bow 7 ing low at every step, advanced to meet me, 
and led the way to a balcony overlooking the lake. 



192 Working My Way Around the World 

In the dim light of a corner, three natives in scanty 
breech-clouts and great turbans squatted before what ap- 
peared to be large baskets. I remained near them with the 
priests, and waited for " the service very important." 

Suddenly the three in the corner, each grasping two 
weapons that looked like clubs, stretched their hands high 
above their heads and brought them down with a crash that 
made me jump to my feet. What I had taken for baskets 
were tom-toms! Without losing a single beat, the drum- 
mers began to blow vigorously on long pipes from which 
came a sad wailing. I spoke no more with my guide, for 
the " musicians " made noise that drowned all other sounds 
for the next two hours. 

I marched on with the monks, who had given me a place 
of honor in their ranks, from one statue to another. Be- 
hind us surged a murmuring multitude who fell on their 
knees again and again. No one sat during the service, and 
there was nothing like a sermon. The priests spoke only 
to the dreamy-eyed Buddhas. 

It was late when the service ended. The boiler-factory 
music ceased as suddenly as it had begun, the worshipers 
poured forth into the soft night, and I was left alone with 
my guides and a dozen priests. 

" See," whispered the innkeeper's son. " You are hon- 
ored. The head man of the temple comes." 

An aged father drew near slowly. In outward appear- 
ance he looked exactly like the other priests. A brilliant 
yellow robe was his only garment. His head was shaved ; 
his arms, right shoulder, and feet were bare. Having 
joined the group, he studied me a moment in silence, then 
said something to me in his native language. 



In the Land of the Wandering Prince 193 

■■ He is asking if you are liking to see the sacred tooth? " 
translated my guide. 

I bowed my thanks. The high priest led the way to the 
innermost room of the temple. In the center of this room 
he halted, fell on his knees, and, muttering a prayer, touched 
his forehead to the stone floor three times. The attendant 
priests imitated every movement he made. 

He then rose and drew forth a large gold casket. From 
it he took a second a bit smaller, and handed the first to one 
of his companions. From the second he drew a third, and 
from the third a fourth. This was kept up until nearly 
every priest held a casket, some fantastically carved, some 
inlaid with precious stones. With the opening of every 
third box, all those not holding anything fell on their knees 
and repeated their prayers and bowings. Finally the head 
priest came to the innermost casket, not over an inch in 
length and set with diamonds and rubies. At sight of this 
all fell on their knees and murmured prayers. Then the 
head priest opened it carefully. Inside, yellow with age, 
was a tooth that certainly never grew in any human mouth. 
The fitting together of the box of boxes required as much 
ceremony as was necessary in taking them apart. 



CHAPTER XVI 

THE MERRY CIRCUS DAYS 

I returned to Colombo by train, reaching the city in the 
late afternoon. I made my way at once to Almeida's. In 
the roofless dining-room sat Askins and the Swede, highly 
excited over the news that Colombo was to be visited by a 
circus. 

" That means a few chips a day for some of us," said 
Askins. " Circuses must have white workmen. Natives 
won't do." 

" Huh ! Yank," roared the Swede half a minute later, 
" you get burn some, eh, playing mit der monkeys in der 
jungle? Pretty soon you ban sunstroke. Here, I make 
you trade." He pointed to a helmet on the table before 
him. "He ban good hat," went on Ole proudly; "I get 
him last week from der Swede consul. Min he too big. 
What you give? " 

I went upstairs, and returned with a cotton jacket that 
I had left in the keeping of Askins. 

"How's this?" I demanded. 

" He ban all right," answered Ole, slipping into it; " der 
oder vas all broke by der sleeves." 

I put on the helmet, and strolled down toward Gordon 
Gardens, where I had taken up sleeping quarters. It was a 
park rich in fountains, gay flowers, and grateful shade 
Under the trees the night dew never fell, the ocean breeze 
was the coolest in Colombo, the fountains were good bath- 

194 



The Merry Circus Days lg^ 

rooms, and the ground was a softer bed than any short- 
legged table could be. 

One by one, there drifted into Colombo four fellow coun- 
trymen of mine, who, following my example, took up their 
lodgings in Gordon Gardens. It soon became known as the 
" American Park Hotel." One of the newcomers was Mar- 
ten, from Tacoma, Washington. He was a boy who had 
spent two seasons in the Orient, diving for pearls. 

Another American in our party claimed New York as 
his birthplace. He said that if we wanted a name for him, 
" Dick Haywood " would do well enough for a time. But 
I will tell more of him later. 

One day, as dawn was breaking, I climbed the fence 
of the " American Park Hotel," and strolled away toward 
the beach for a dip in the sea, to take the place of break- 
fast; for my last coin was spent. As I lay stretched on 
the sands after my bath, I heard someone shout my name. 
I sprang up, to see the Sw r ede rushing toward me, waving 
his arms wildly above his head. 

"Circus!" he cried. " Der circus is coom, Franck ! 
Creeket-ground ! " And, turning about, he dashed off 
faster than most white men dare to run in Ceylon. 

I dashed after the flying Norseman, and overtook him 
at the entrance to the public playground. 

The center of the cricket-field was a wild jumble of 
animal-cages, rolls of canvas, scattered tent-poles, clowns, 
jockeys, snake-charmers, and everything else that goes to 
make up a traveling show. Around it a growing crowd of 
natives were peering, pushing, chattering, falling back in 
terror when the angry circus men shook their tent-stakes at 
them, but sweeping out upon the scattered trappings again 
as soon as the latter had passed. 



196 Working My Way Around the World 

We fought our way through the crowd into the center of 
the mass. "Do you want help?" we shouted to the cir- 
cus manager. He was a powerful Irishman, with a head 
like a cannon-ball, and a face and jaw that looked as if he 
were ready for a fight. Tugging at a heap of canvas, he 
peered at us between his outstretched legs and shouted: 
"Yes! I want four min! White wans! If ye want the 
job, bring two more.'' 

We turned to look at the" sea of faces about us. There 
was not a white man in the crowd. 

" Ve look by Almeida's ! " shouted the Swede, as we bat- 
tled our way through the mob. Before we could escape, 
however, I caught sight of a familiar slouch hat well back 
in the crowd. A moment later Askins stood beside us. Be- 
hind him came Dick Haywood. The four of us dashed 
back to the boss. 

" Well! " he roared, " I pay a quid a week! Want it? " 

" A pound a week," muttered Askins. " That 's more 'n 
two chips a day. Aye! We'll take it." 

" All right ! Jump on to that center pole an' get 'er up. 
If these natives get in the way, thump 'em with a tent-pole. 
Step lively, now ! " 

We soon had a space roped off. The boss tossed a pick- 
ax at me and set me to grubbing holes for the poles that 
were to hold up the seats. Carefully and evenly I swung 
the tool up and down, like an old lady; for the natives 
pressed around me so closely that the least slip would have 
broken a Singhalese head. To them the sight of a white 
man doing such w r ork was as astonishing as any of the 
wonders of the circus. Few of them had ever before seen 
a European using heavier tools than a pen or pencil. 
Within an hour the news spread through the city that the 






The Merry Circus Days 197 

circus had brought some " white coolies " to town; and all 
Colombo and his wife did without the afternoon nap and 
trooped down to the cricket-field to gaze upon the odd sight 
of white men doing muscular labor. 

The mob followed me as I went from hole to hole. My 
mates, too, were hindered in their work by the crowd as 
they carried seat-boards, or sawdust for the ring. Hay- 
wood, of the untamed temper, taking the boss at his word, 
snatched up a tent-pole and struck two natives. Even after 
that they still crowded around him. 

I heard two natives at my elbow talking in English : 

" This sight is to me astounding! " shrieked a high-caste 
youth to his older companion. " I have never before known 
that Europeans can do such workings." 

" Why, indeed yes ! " cried his companion. " In his 
home the sahib does just so strong work as our coolies ; 
but he is play cricket and tennis he is doing even stronger. 
He is not rich always and sitting in shade." 

" But do the white man not losing his caste when he is 
working like coolies •? " demanded the youth. " Why is this 
man work at such? Is he perhaps prisoner, that he dis- 
graces himself lower than the keeper of the arrack- 
shop?" 

" Truly, my friend, I not understand," admitted the older 
man a bit sadly ; " but I am reading that in sahib's country 
he is make the workings of coolie and yet is not coolie." 

There were others besides the natives who stood in the 
crowd watching the " white coolies." Here and there I 
caught sight of a European scowling darkly at me. I won- 
dered what I had done to displease them. 

When night fell all was in readiness for the show. The 
circle of seats was built; the tents were stretched; rings, 



198 Working My Way Around the World 

ropes, and lights were ready for use. Half a thousand 
chairs had been placed for Europeans. We had worked so 
hard under the blazing sun that we agreed we would not 
dare to do so more than once a year, not even for " more 
than two chips." The boss gave a last snarl, called a 'rick- 
shaw, and drove off to his hotel. We went to a shop across 
the way, ate our curry and rice, and returned to stretch 
out on the grass near an entrance. 

That night, at the circus, we found greater amusement 
in watching the people on the circle of benches than in 
watching the ring. First we acted as ushers. The crowds 
that swarmed in upon us belonged to every caste on the 
island. In seating them we had to settle important ques- 
tions that never trouble circus men of the Western world. 
It was difficult to determine where to put them. A com- 
pany of priests wearing cheesecloth robes began to scream 
at us because we seated them where there was no room 
for their betel-nut boxes. Light-colored islanders began 
to shout angrily when we tried to seat them near darker 
natives. Merchants refused to sit in the same section with 
shop-keepers. Shop-keepers cried out in rage when we 
made the mistake of placing them near clerks. Clerks 
cried out hoarsely when we seated them among laborers. 
Skilled workers screamed in frenzy whenever we tried to 
make room among them for common coolies. 

The lowest class native, called the sudra, who wears 
nothing but a scant cloth about as big as a pocket handker- 
chief, is the most despised of all. When I ushered in one 
of these, row after row of natives raised an uproar against 
him as he passed. He shrank timidly behind me as we 
journeyed through the tent, looking for a seat. Most of 
the natives refused to sit as circus seats are meant to be 



The Merry Circus Days 199 

sat on, but squatted on their heels, hugging their scrawny 
knees. We had much trouble trying to keep tricky 'rick- 
shaw runners from crawling in among the chairs when we 
w r ere n't looking. And through it all certain native youths, 
in order to show that they understood English, kept both- 
ering us by asking unnecessary and unanswerable ques- 
tions. 

Toward the last, when the Europeans came in, quiet and 
proud in manner, the natives began to behave themselves a 
little better. And when the bicyclers appeared for the first 
act, they forgot that the despised sudra sat under the same 
tent with them. The mixed crowd settled down into a 
motionless sea of strained, astonished faces. When " The 
Wonderful Cycle W^hiz " was over, we hurried to pull down 
the bicycle track and carry the heavy pieces outside the tent. 
While we lowered a trapeze with one hand, w r e placed and 
held the hurdles with the other. W'e had to make tables 
and chairs for a " Hand Balancing Act " appear as if by 
magic. Breathlessly we led the trick ponies on, cleared 
the ring for the performing elephant, set it up again for the 
" Astounding Bareback Rider/' and cleared it again for the 
" Hungarian Horses." 

Then " Mile. Montgomery " capered out into the ring 
to perform her " Daring Horsemanship Act." We did our 
best to strike the fair rider squarely on the head with paper 
hoops — not so much because we wished to charm the audi- 
ience with our skill as to escape the words of scorn that 
" mademoiselle " flung back at us when we blundered. 

Away with hoops and ribbons! We rushed to get the 
place ready for the clown act. After the clowns came an 
act to show " The Wonderful Power of Man Over Fero- 
cious Beasts," during which a thin and moth-eaten tiger, 



200 Working My Way Around the World 

crouched on a horse, rode twice around the ring with a sad 
and hen-pecked expression on his face. 

Then came ten minutes' recess that was no recess for 
us: for we had to bring on more hoops and rings of fire, 
tables and chairs, performing dogs that had to be held in 
leash, and at last to set up the elephant's bicycle and drive 
the lion out for a spin on the huge animal's back. How we 
did work! We must have left streams of sweat behind 
us. Although our tasks were not finished by the time the 
last stragglers left the tent, we lost no time in tearing off the 
heavy uniforms the boss had provided for us. 

When everything had been put away, we made our beds 
by setting several chairs side by side, and turned in. Al- 
though we were disturbed in the night by prowling na- 
tives, we slept part of the time. 

The circus had been nearly a week in Colombo when I 
was unexpectedly advanced to a position of importance. It 
was in an idle hour late one afternoon. The four of us 
were showing what tricks we could perform in the empty 
ring, when the ring-master and the manager walked in upon 
us and caught me in the act of " doing a hand-stand." I 
quickly righted myself. 

The ring-master looked me over from my shaved head 
to my bare feet, turned to scowl at the manager a moment, 
and then began talking to me in a voice that sounded as 
if it came from a phonograph : 

" Know any other stunts? " 

" One or two," I answered. 

" Where 'd ye learn 'em? " snapped the ringmaster. 

I told him I had been a member of a gymnasium for a 
few years. 

" Gymnasium on shipboard? " asked the owner. 



The Merry Circus Days 201 

"Why, no, sir; on land." 

" Could you do a dive over that ehair into the ring, a 
head-stand, a stiff- fall, and a roll-up?" rasped the ring- 
master. 

I heard my companions chuckle and snort behind me. 
They seemed to think it was funny. 

"Yes, sir; I can work those," I stammered. 

" You 're a sailor? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Then a few tumbles won't hurt you any. Can you 
hold a man of twelve stone on your shoulders? " 

My fellow workmen snorted again. 

I figured it up quickly ; twelve times fourteen pounds — 
one hundred and sixty-eight pounds. 

" Yes," I answered. 

" Well," snapped the ring-master savagely, " I want you 
to go on for Walhalla's turn." 

" Whaat ! " I gasped. " Walha — ! " I was so aston- 
ished that I almost took to my heels. Walhalla and Faust 
were our two funniest clowns, who kept the natives roar- 
ing with delight for more than an hour each day. My 
companions were so overcome that they laughed aloud be- 
hind me. 

." Here, you! " cried the ring-master, whirling upon them. 
" Go over and brush the flies off that elephant ! An' keep 
'em brushed off ! D 'ye hear me ! " 

" Now, then, Franck," he went on to me, " W^alhalla has 
a fever. Now — " 

" But I 'm no circus man ! " I argued. 

"Oh, nonsense!" said the ring-master. "You've been 
with us long enough to know Walhalla's tricks, and you 
can learn how to do them in a couple of rehearsals." 



202 Working My Way Around the World 

" There '11 be ten chips a clay in it," put in the man- 
ager. 

"Eh — er — ten rupees!" I choked. (That was more 
than three dollars and a quarter.) "All right, sir. I'll 
make a try at it." 

" Of course," said the manager. " Now go and get tif- 
fin, and be back in half an hour. I '11 have Faust here for 
a practice." 

I sprang for the door, but stopped suddenly as a thought 
struck me. 

" But say," I wailed, " we 're aground ! The clothes — ! " 

"Stretch a leg and get tiffin!" cried the ring-master. 
" Walhalla's rags are all here." 

That evening, before the show began, I worked feverishly 
with Faust. We practiced jokes, tumbles, tripping each 
other up, pretending we were knocked down, and so on, 
while the manager tried to give us more time by holding 
back the audience. When the natives finally stormed the 
tent and forced their way inside, I scurried away to the 
dressing-tent to put on my clown's outfit and have my face 
painted. 

We had to leave out some of the acts until the next day 
gave more time for practice ; but the natives did n't seem to 
notice it, and the Europeans did n't care, so I got through 
the performance with nothing worse happening to me than 
one rather bad fall that was a little too real. 

\\ T t gave two performances a day because the natives 
enjoyed our act. But one day, while back in the dressing- 
tent where I scraped dried paint off one side of my face, 
while my fellow clown daubed fresh colors on the other, 
while I was jumping out of one foolish costume into an- 
other more idiotic, turning the place topsy-turvy in a mad 



^_^__^___ 



_. 



The Merry Circus Days 203 

scramble to find my dunce-cap and a lost slap-stick, I be- 
gan to lose my love for the clown's life. 

And when I went to bed on my row of chairs that night, 
I found myself wishing that the time would soon come 
when I could earn my living in some other way. 

One long week I wore the cap and bells on the cricket-field 
of Colombo. Then the day dawned when our tent was 
quickly taken down and bundled into the hold of a ship by 
naked stevedores. On the forward deck the moth-eaten 
tiger peered through the bars of his cage at the jungle be- 
hind the city and rubbed a watery eye; at the rail an un- 
painted Faust stared gloomily down at the water. But we 
four wanderers shed no tears as we stood at the far end of 
the break-water and watched the circus carried off until it 
sank below the sky-line. As we straggled back at dusk 
to join the homeless wanderers under the palms of Gordon 
Gardens, I caught myself feeling now and then in the band 
of my trousers for the money I had sewed there. 



CHAPTER XVII 

THREE WANDERERS IN INDIA 

The merry circus days had left me so great a fortune that 
I decided to sail to the peninsula of India at once. Mar- 
ten, of Tacoma, offered to ^o with me, and I agreed ; for 
the ex-pearl-fisher could speak the Hindu language freely 
and he knew the country well. 

On the morning of April fourth we bought our tickets for 
passage on the afternoon steamer, and set out to bid fare- 
well to our acquaintances in the city. It was almost time 
to sail, when Haywood burst in upon us at Almeida's. 

" I hear," he shouted, " that you fellows are off for In- 
dia." 

We nodded. 

" I 'm going along," he declared. 

We scowled. We did n't want him to go with us. But 
how could we stop him? He had the same right to travel 
on that steamer that we had. W r e kept silent, therefore ; 
and, determining to shake off our unwelcome companion as 
soon as we landed, marched down to the dock with him, and 
tumbled with a crowd of coolies into a barge that soon set 
us aboard the steamship Kasara. 

We landed in the early morning in a village of mud huts 
and bamboo bazaars. Here we waited only long enough to 
catch the train that, rumbling through the village, carried us 
northward. 

I settled back in my seat and looked out of the window at 
the flying landscape. It was not much like the country of 

204 



_, 



Three Wanderers in India 



205 



Ceylon. On either hand stretched treeless flat-lands, as 
parched and brown as Sahara, a desert blazed by a fiery sun, 
and unwatered for months. A few naked farmers toiled 
over the baked ground, scratching the dry soil with worth- 




I take a last 'rickshaw ride before boarding the steamer for India 

less wooden plows. A short distance beyond, we flew past 
wretched mud huts, too low to stand in, where the farmers 
burrow by night and squat on their heels by day. 

A hundred miles north of the sea-coast we halted to visit 
the famous Brahmin temple of Madura. Brahminism is 
another religion of India — older than Buddhism and much 
like it. Its followers believe in caste. In ancient times they 
inflicted severe punishment on themselves for the purifica- 
tion of the soul. 

The temple proved to be a great stone building sur- 
rounded by a massive wall. Four thousand statues of 
Hindu gods — so our guide-book told us — adorned each 



206 Working My Way Around the World 

gateway. They were hideous-faced idols, each pouring 
down from four pairs of hands his blessings on the half- 
starved humans who crawled and lay flat on the ground to 
worship them. 

Inside the gates swarmed crowds of pilgrims wearing 
rags as a punishment for their sins. A sunken-eyed youth 
wormed his way through the crowd and offered to guide us 
through the temple for a coin or two. We followed him 
down a narrow passage to a lead-colored pond in which not 
very neat pilgrims washed away their sins. Then he led 
us out upon an open space from which we could see the 
golden roofs. 

" High up within one of those domes lives a god," whis- 
pered the youth, while Marten translated. But when I 
asked him to lead us up so that we could see the god, he 
said that white men were never allowed to enter the temple. 

He took us, instead, to see the sacred elephants. Seven of 
the monsters, each chained by a foot, thrashed about over 
their supper of hay in a roofless stable. They were as ready 
to accept a tuft of fodder from a heathen sahib as from the 
dust-covered native pilgrim who had tramped many a burn- 
ing mile to offer it, so that the holy beast would forgive him 
his sins. Children played in and out among the animals. 
The largest was amusing himself by setting the little ones, 
one by one, on his back. 

In a far corner stood an elephant that even the clouted 
keepers avoided. He was the most sacred of them 
all, our guide said, for he was mad, and he visited a ter- 
rible punishment on any who came within reach of his an- 
grily twisting trunk. Yet the sunken-eyed youth explained 
to us that if a man were killed by one of these holy animals 
he was very fortunate : for " if a coolie is killed in that way 



Three Wanderers in India 207 

he will be a farmer when he is born again," he said; " the 
peasant will become a shop-keeper, the merchant a war- 
rior, in his next life." But those present must have been 
satisfied to remain what they were in life, for we noticed 
that even the despised sudra was careful to keep away from 
that far corner. 

" And how about a white man? " asked Haywood, when 
our guide had finished his explanation. 

" A sahib," said our guide, " when he dies, becomes a 
crow. Therefore are white men afraid to die." 

We rode all night, and arrived at the station of Trichi- 
nopoly early the next morning. The city was some miles 
distant from the station. We called out to the driver of a 
bullock-cart, offering four annas for the trip to town. (An 
anna is equal to a cent.) The cart was a heavy two- 
wheeled affair. When two of us tried to climb in behind, 
we almost lifted the tiny, raw-boned bullock in mid-air. 
A screech from the driver called our attention to the dan- 
ger his beast was in. We jumped down, and allowed him 
to tell us how to board the cart. While Haywood and the 
driver went to the front of the vehicle Marten and I stayed 
at the back. Then, drawing ourselves up on both ends of 
it, all at the same time, we managed to keep it balanced 
until we were aboard. The wagon was about four feet 
long and three wide, with an arched roof. It was too short 
to lie down in, and too low 7 to sit up in. Haywood crouched 
beside the driver, sitting on the knife-like edge of the board 
in front. With his knees drawn up on a level with his 
eyes, he held on by clinging desperately to the edge of the 
roof. Marten and I lay on our backs under the roof, with 
our legs extending out at the rear. 

At first the bullock would not move ; but after much shout- 



208 Working My Way Around the World 

ing from the driver he set out with little mincing steps, like 
a man in a sack race — a lame man at that. The driver 
screamed shrilly, struck the animal a dozen heavy whacks 
with his long pole, and forced him into a trot that lasted 
just four paces. Then the animal slowly shook his head 
from side to side, and fell again into a walk. This was 
repeated several times during the trip — always with the 
same result. The cart had no springs, and the road was 
like an empty stone-quarry. We were bounced up and down 
during the whole trip, until we fancied our bones rattled. 

We grew very hungry, and Marten ordered the driver 
to take us to an eating-shop. The native grinned to him- 
self and drove toward a sahib hotel. We called out to him, 
telling him that that place was too high-priced for us. He 
shook his head mournfully, and said that he knew of no 
native shop where white men were allowed to enter. We 
bumped by more than a dozen restaurants, but all bore the 
sign, " For Hindus Only." 

At last, in a narrow alley-way, the bullock fell asleep be- 
fore a miserable hut. The driver screeched, and a scared- 
looking coolie tumbled out of the shanty. Then he, Mar- 
ten, and the driver began to talk excitedly in the language of 
southern India. For a time the coolie refused to sell us 
food, because if he touched anything that we touched he 
would become something lower than a coolie in his next 
life. But when we offered him the princely sum of three 
annas each he agreed to risk losing caste to get us some- 
thing to eat. So we climbed down off the cart and squatted 
on his creaking veranda. 

The bullock crawled on. The coolie ran screaming into 
thx. hut, and came out again with three banana-leaves, a 
wife, and many naked children, each of whom carried a 







Three Wanderers in India 



209 



cocoanut-shell filled with water or curries. They put these 
on the floor of the veranda. The native spread the leaves 
before us, and his wife dumped a small peck of hot rice into 
the center of each of them. When the meal was over we 
arose to go ; but the native shrieked with terror, and insisted 
that we carry the leaves and shells away with us, as no 
member of his family dared touch them. 

Our dinner had been generous enough, but it did not 




" Haywood " snaps me as I am getting a shave in Trickinopoly 

seem to satisfy our hunger. Within an hour I caught my- 
self eyeing the food spread out in the open shops on all 
sides. There were coils of rope-like pastry fried in oil, 
lumps, balls, cakes of sweetmeats, brittle bread-sheets, pans 
of dark red chillies, potatoes cut into small cubes and cov- 
ered with a green curry sauce. 

I dropped behind my companions, and aroused a sr >- 
keeper who was sound asleep among his pots and pahs. 
For months, while traveling through countries where I 



210 Working My Way Around the World 

could not speak the language, I had been in the habit of 
picking out my own food ; but no sooner had I laid a hand 
on a sweetmeat than the merchant sprang into the air with 
a wild scream that brought my fellow countrymen run- 
ning back upon me. 

" What 's that fellow bawling about, Marten? " demanded 
Haywood. 

" Oh, Franck 's gone and polluted his pan of sweets." 

" But I touched only the one I picked up," I explained, 
" and I 'm going to eat that." 

" These fellows won't see it that way," replied Marten. 
"If you put a finger on one piece, the whole dish is pol- 
luted. He 's sending for a low-caste man now to carry 
the panful away and dump it. Nobody '11 buy anything 
while it stays here." 

The keeper refused angrily to talk to me when I offered 
to buy the whole dish, and we went on. 

Wherever we went, the people were afraid to come near 
us. The peddler of green cocoanuts begged us to carry 
away the shells when we had drunk the milk; passing na- 
tives sprang aside in terror when we tossed a banana-skin 
on the ground. When we bought slices of watermelon of 
a fruit-seller, he watched anxiously to make sure that we 
did n't drop a seed on his stand. If we had done so he 
would have thrown away his entire stock to save himself 
from losing caste. 

As we turned a corner in the crowded market-place, Hay- 
wood, who was smoking, and who was not at all neat in 
his habits, carelessly spat upon the flowing gown of a tur- 
baned passer-by. 

" Oh, sahib!" screamed the native in excellent English. 
" See what you have done ! You have made me lose caste. 



Three Wanderers in India 211 

For weeks, now, I may not go among my friends or see 
my family. I must stop my business, and wear rags, and 
sit in the street, and pour ashes on my head, and go often to 
the temple to purify myself." 

" Stuff! " said Haywood. 

But the weeping Hindu turned back the way he had 
come. 

This strange belief makes India a land of unusual hard- 
ship for a man who cannot afford to stop at the great Eu- 
ropean hotels. He not only has difficulty in buying food 
and lodging, but, worse than that, he cannot get water. 
And in a hot country like India water is an absolute ne- 
cessity. For this reason the English rulers have made a 
law to help travelers who find themselves stranded far in the 
interior of the peninsula. India is divided into states or 
districts, and each district is ruled by a governor, called a 
commissioner, who lives in the largest city of his district. 
The law provides that if a European finds himself penniless 
and unable to buy food, he may apply to any commissioner, 
who must give him a third-class ticket to the capital of the 
next district, and enough money, called batter, to buy food 
on the way. 

We had not been in Trichinopoly long when Marten, 
who had tossed his last anna to a beggar, decided to pay 
a visit to the district commissioner. I agreed to accom- 
pany him, for I wanted to see a commissioner's bungalow 
and to make the acquaintance of so important a person- 
age as the governor himself ; and wherever we went 
Haywood was sure to follow. Thus it happened that, as 
noonday fell over Trichinopoly, three cotton-clad Americans 
walked out of the native town and turned northward toward 
the governor's bungalow. 



212 Working My Way Around the World 

Heat-waves hovered like a fog before us. Here and 
there a tree cast its slender shadow, like a splash of ink, 
across the white highway. A few coolies, whose skins were 
safe from sunburn, shuffled through the sand on their way 
to the town. We spoke to one to ask our way; but he 
sprang with a side jump to the farthest edge of the road- 
way, in terror of our touch. 

"Commissioner sahib keh bungalow kehdereh?" 
("Where is the commissioner's bungalow?") asked Mar- 
ten. 

" Hazur hum malum neh, sahib " (" I don't know, sir "), 
stammered the native, backing away as we stepped toward 
him. 

"Stand still, you fellows," shouted Marten; "you're 
scaring him so he can't understand. Every coolie knows 
where the governor lives. Commissioner sahib keh bun- 
galow kehdereh? " 

" Far down the road, O protector of the unfortunate." 

We came upon the low, rambling building in a grove 
among rocky hillocks. Along the broad veranda crouched a 
dozen servants (called punkahwallahs) , pulling drowsily at 
the cords that moved the great velvet fans (called punkahs) 
that hung from the ceiling within. Under the punkahs, 
at their desks, sat a small army of native secretaries and 
clerks, looking rather grand in their flowing gowns, great 
black beards, and the bright-colored turbans of the high- 
class Hindu. Servants swarmed about the writers, and 
fell on their knees with their faces to the ground each time 
an official gave a command. White men there were none. 

The official wearing the brightest turban rose from his 
cushions as we entered, and addressed us in English ; 

" Can I be of service to you, sahibs? " 



Three Wanderers in India 213 

" We want to see the commissioner," said Marten. 

" The commissioner, sahib," replied the Hindu, " is at 
his bungalow. He will perhaps come here for a half hour 
at three o'clock." 

" But we want tickets for the one o'clock train," Hay- 
wood blurted out. 

" I am the assistant governor," answered the native. 
" What the governor sahib can do I can do. But it takes 
a long time to get the ticket, and you cannot, perhaps, catch 
the one o'clock train. Still, I shall hurry as much as pos- 
sible." 

In his breathless haste he returned to his seat, carefully 
folded his legs, rolled a cigarette with great care, blew 
smoke at the punkahs for several moments, and, pulling out 
the drawers of his desk, examined one by one the books 
and papers within them. He seemed unable to find that 
for which he was looking. He rose slowly to his feet, in- 
quired among his dark-faced companions, returned to his 
cushions, and, calling a dozen servants around him, sent 
them on as many errands. 

" It 's the book in which we enter the names of those who 
ask for tickets," he explained; "it will soon be found." 
And he lighted another cigarette. 

A servant came upon the book at last — plainly in sight 
on the top of the assistant's desk. That officer opened it 
slowly, read half the writing it contained, and, carefully 
choosing a native pen, prepared to write. He was not try- 
ing to provoke or tease us : he really thought that he was 
moving with all possible haste. 

Slowly his sputtering pen wrote down whatever Marten 
and Haywood told him in answer to his questions. Then 
he laid the volume away in a drawer, locked it, and called 



214 Working My Way Around the World 

for a time-table. He studied it dreamily before dragging 
forth another heavy book. But his pen refused to write 
smoothly ; he could n't find the keys to the strong box for a 
time ; and when he did find them they refused to fit the lock. 
He gave up at last, and, promising that a servant would 
meet us at the station in the evening with the tickets, he 
bade us good day. 

As we rose to depart, Marten asked for water. The na- 
tive officials scowled. They cried out in horrified chorus 
when Haywood stepped toward a chettie in the corner of the 
room. 

" Don't touch that, sahib ! " shrieked the governor's as- 
sistant. " I shall arrange to give you a drink." 

Among the servants within the building were none low 
enough in caste to be assigned the task of bringing us 
water. The assistant sent for a punkah-wallah. One of 
the great folds of velvet fell motionless, and there sneaked 
into the room the lowest of human creatures. The assist- 
ant gave a sharp order. The sudra dropped to a squat, 
raised his clasped hands to his forehead, and shuffled off 
toward the chettie. 

Picking up a heavy brass goblet, he placed it, not on the 
table, but on the floor in the middle of the room. The 
officials nearest the spot left their desks, and the entire 
company formed a circle around us. Haywood stepped 
forward to pick up the cup. 

" No, no," cried the natives; " stand back! " 

The coolie slunk forward with the chettie, and, holding 
it fully two feet above the goblet, filled the vessel, and drew 
back several paces. 

" Now you may drink," said the assistant. 



Three Wanderers in India 215 

"Do you want more?" he asked, when the cup was 
empty. 

" Yes." 

" Then leave the lota on the floor and stand back." 

The punkah-wallah filled it as before. 

" Good day," repeated the assistant, when we had ac- 
knowledged ourselves satisfied ; " but you must carry the 
lota away with you." 

" But it cost a good piece of money," suggested Hay- 
wood. 

" Yes," sighed the Hindu ; " but no one dares touch v: 
any more." 

A native clerk met us at the station with the tickets. 

We boarded the express that thundered in a moment 
later, and in the early morning of the next day stopped at 
a station just outside the city of Madras. It was here that 
Haywood's bad temper so overcame him that he rushed out 
upon the platform and struck an impudent fruit peddler who 
had sold him some spoiled bananas. Shortly afterward a 
native policeman arrested him, and we were rid of our 
fiery-tempered companion at last. The train sped on, and 
a few minutes later drew up in the station of Madras. 

We turned away toward the Young Men's Christian As- 
sociation building. 

" I '11 pick you up in a day or two," said Marten, at the 
foot of the steps. " I 've got an uncle living in town, and 
I always go to see him when I land here." 



CHAPTER XVIII 

THE WAYS OF THE HINDU 

It was my good fortune to find employment while in 
Madras. The job was the easiest I had yet had, and it 
brought me three rupees a "day. All I had to do was to sit 
in street-cars and watch the Hindu conductors poke the fares 
paid into the cash-registers they wear around their necks, 
and to make sure they did not make a mistake and put some 
of the coppers into their pockets instead. For the Hindu 
makes many mistakes, and is naturally so careless that he 
has even been known to forget to collect fares from his 
friends on the car. 

Thus for merely sitting on different cars all day, and re- 
porting to the street railway company any conductor who 
made such mistakes, I was paid three rupees a day. It gave 
me an excellent chance to see Madras. 

As I was riding through the city I noticed that there were 
almost no horses there. Their place was taken by leather- 
skinned, rice-fed coolies. These natives were hitched to 
heavy two-wheeled carts, which squawked horribly as they 
were drawn through the streets. Perhaps the natives did 
not know that axle-grease would make them run more 
smoothly. Yet two of these thin, starved-looking coolies 
will draw a wagon loaded with great bales from the ships, 
or a dozen steel rails, for miles over hills and hollows, with 
fewer breathing spells than a truckman would allow a team 
of horses. 

One day I came upon a sight that surprised me. At a 

216 



The Ways of the Hindu 217 

corner where the car in which I sat swung toward the harbor, 
a gang of coolies was repairing a roadway. That in itself 
was no cause for wonder. But among the workmen, 
dressed like the others in a ragged cloth around the hips, 
swinging his hammer as dully, gazing as stupidly at the 
ground as his companions, was a white man ! There could 
be no doubt of it. Under the tan of an Indian sun his 
skin was fiery red, and his eyes were blue! But a white 
man doing such work, in company with the most miserable, 
the lowest, the most despised of human creatures ! To be- 
come a sudra and ram stones in the public streets, dressed 
in nothing but a clout ! Suppose that I were obliged to come 
to such an end ! A terror came upon me, a longing to flee 
while there was yet time from the unfortunate land in which 
a man of my own flesh and blood could fall to this. 

Again and again my rounds of the city brought me back 
to that same corner. The fallen one toiled slowly on, bend- 
ing hopelessly over his task, never raising his head to glance 
at the passers-by. Twice I was about to get off the car 
and speak to him, to learn his dreadful story. But the car 
had rumbled on before I gathered courage. Leaving the of- 
fice as twilight fell, I passed that way again. A babu (edu- 
cated Hindu) standing near the edge of the sidewalk be- 
gan talking to me in English, and I asked him about the 
white laborer. 

"What! That?" he said, following the direction of 
my finger. "Why, that's a Hindu albino" (colorless 
Hindu). 

One day I decided to have my clothes washed by a Hindu 
laundryman, called a dhoby. The dhoby is a hard-working 
man. High above his head he swings each streaming gar- 
ment, and slaps it down again and again on the flat stone 



218 Working My Way Around the World 

at his feet, as if he were determined to split it into bits. 
When his strength gives out, he flings down the tog, 
and jumps up and down on it as if he had lost his reason. 
His bare feet tread wildly, and when he can dance no longer 
he falls upon the helpless rag, and tugs and strains and 
twists and pulls as if determined that it shall come to be 
washed no more. Flying buttons fill him with glee. When 
he can beat and tramp and tug no longer, he tosses the 
shreds that are left scornfully into the stream. Yet he is 
strictly honest: at nightfall he takes back to its owner the 
dirt he carried away and the threads that hold it together. 

The cook of an eating-shop offered, for three annas, to 
wash all that I owned except my shoes and helmet. In a 
colder land I should have had to go to bed until the task 
was done. But not so in India. The roadsters gathered in 
the dining-room of the shop saw nothing strange in my 
costume as I sat down to pass the time in writing letters. 

From the back yard, for a time, came the shrieks of my 
maltreated garments. Then all was silent. In fear and 
trembling, I stole out to take a look at the remains. But 
as a dhoby the cook was a failure. There were a few 
tears in the garments hanging in the blazing sunshine, a 
button was missing here and there ; but that was all. An 
hour's work with a ship's needle sufficed to heal the 
wounds, though not the scars, of battle. 

We left Madras on the train early the next morning. 
Two days later we were on our way to Puri, the city of the 
god Juggernaut. Puri lies on the shores of the Bay of 
Bengal, about two hundred miles south of Calcutta. It is 
here that the car of the god makes its yearly trip from 
one temple to another about two miles distant. The car, 
weighing many tons, is set up outside the temple, and the 



The Ways of the Hindu 219 

god Juggernaut, a hideous- faced idol is placed on his throne 
within. Hundreds of natives rush around the place, scream- 
ing and struggling for a chance to pull at the long ropes 
attached to the car; and, to the sound of strange prayer 
and song, the procession starts. The great road, fully an 
eighth of a mile wide, stretches away straight and level to 
the smaller temple. There was a time, it is said, when na- 
tives threw themselves and their children under the great 
car and let it crush them to death, so that they might win 
favor with the god ; but such events were probably accidents. 

We left the train at Khurda Road, and bought tickets, to 
the sacred city. The long train that we boarded was so 
crowded with natives that there was scarcely room for us. 

Night was falling when we stepped off at Puri. The 
station stood in the open country, and we started off on a 
tramp to the city fully two miles away. Natives, coming 
upon us in the darkness along the road of sacrifice, sprang 
aside in terror and shrieked a long-drawn " Sahib hai ! " 
to warn others to keep away from us. Nearer the city, a 
hundred families who had come from far had pitched their 
tents at the edge of the great road. 

In the city we were hardly able to buy food. Merchants 
cried out in anger when they saw us coming toward their 
tumble-down shacks, and only with much coaxing could we 
draw one of them out into the street to sell us sweetmeats 
and fruits. Half the shops sold nothing but dude, which is 
to say, milk — of bullocks and goats, of course ; for the 
cow is a sacred animal in India. The Hindu thinks the 
soul of a human being lives in the body of the cow. 

We stopped at one shack to buy some of this dude. A 
wicked-looking youth took our coin cautiously and filled 
two dishes that looked like flower-pots. I drank the liquid 



220 Working My Way Around the World 

in mine, and stepped forward to put it back on the worm- 
eaten board that served as counter. The youth sprang at 
me with a scream of rage and fear; but before the pot had 
touched the counter Marten knocked it out of my hand and 
shattered it to pieces on the cobblestones, then smashed his 
own beside it. 

There was not a native hut in Puri that we could enter, 
and we had nowhere to spend the night. We returned to 
the station, and asked the agent if we could sit in the two 
wicker chairs in the waiting-room. He would not let us, 
but told us of an empty car near the station. We stumbled 
off through the railway yards, and came upon a first-class 
coach on a side-track. It was the best " hotel " of our In- 
dian trip — a parlor car containing great couches covered 
with the softest leather. There were bright copper lamps 
that we could light after the heavy curtains had been drawn, 
large mirrors, and running water. No wonder we slept late 
the next morning. 

We were not allowed to go inside the great temple built 
to house the god Juggernaut, but much could be seen from 
without. The temple rises in seven domes one above an- 
other like the terraced vineyards of the Alps. The steps 
that wind up and around these domes are half hidden by the 
horrible-looking statues of gods and misshapen animals. 
Above them towers the Juggernaut's throne-room, looking 
like a cucumber standing on end. Perhaps the builder, 
when his task was completed, was doomed to lose his hands, 
like so many successful architects of Asia, so that he could 
not build anything more wonderful for others. 

While we were walking around the temple we came upon 
one of the sacred bulls starting out on his morning walk 
past the straw-roofed shops of Puri. He was a sleek, 



The Ways of the Hindu 221 

plump beast, with short, stumpy horns and a hump. He 
seemed as harmless as a child's pet poodle. We kept him 
company. 

Starting for the nearest shop, he walked proudly along, 
shouldering his way through the crowd, pushing aside all 
who stood in his path, not rudely, but firmly. Natives 
threw themselves flat on the ground before him ; street ped- 
dlers stepped aside with muttered prayers; scores of women 
fell on their knees and elbows in crowded streets, bowed 
their heads low in the dust, and ran to kiss his flanks. 

Marching boldly up to the first booth, the bull chose a 
morsel of green stuff from the stand, and, chewing it 
daintily, strolled on to the next stall. He selected something 
from each of the long rows of shops, stopping longest where 
the supplies were freshest. The keepers did not like this, 
but they did not say much against it. For how may a 
Hindu know that the soul of his grandfather does not look 
out through those calm eyes? At any rate, he is just so 
much more sure of heaven for every leaf and stalk that he 
loses. Now and again Marten told me what the store- 
keeper was saying. 

" Hast thou not always had they fill, O holy one ! " prayed 
one native, rocking his body back and forth in time to his 
prayer. " I would willingly feed thee. Hast thou not al- 
ways found welcome at my shop ? But I am a poor man, 
O king of sacred beasts. I pray thee, therefore, take of 
the goods of my neighbor, who has great wealth. For I 
am very poor, and if thou dost not cease to-morrow I may 
not be here to feed thee." 

As if in answer to the prayer, the animal moved on to the 
booth of the neighbor, who showed no sign of the great 
wealth that had been charged against him. His stock was 



222 Working My Way Around the World 

fresh, however, and the bull ate generously in spite of the 
keeper's prayer. A second and a third time the keeper 
begged him to stop, but he would not. Then the Hindu, 
picking up a bamboo stick, murmured the prayer into it. 

" Thou canst not hear the prayer of a poor man, O sacred 
one, through thine ears," wailed the merchant. " Listen 
then to this." And, rising in his place, he struck the animal 
sharply over the nose with the bamboo stick. The bull 
turned to gaze on the sinner, looked reproachfully at him 
for a moment through half-closed eyelids, and strolled 
slowly away. 

We saw many widows among the swarming thousands 
of Puri. There was a time when, on the death of her hus- 
band, the Hindu woman had to mount the funeral pyre and 
be burned with his dead body. But since the British have 
taken possession of India they have made a law against 
such cruelties. Now, on the death of her husband, the 
Hindu woman must merely shave her head and dress in a 
snow-white sheet, and she must never marry again. 

There were other women in the crowd. Most of them 
wore jewelry. We met some who wore rings on every 
finger and toe and bracelets on both arms from wrists to 
elbows. It was not unusual to meet a woman with rings in 
the top, side, and fleshy part of each ear, or women wearing 
three nose-rings, one of which pierces the left nostril and 
swings back and forth against the cheek of the wearer. 

That afternoon we left by train for Calcutta. The ex- 
press rumbled into Khurda Road soon after we reached the 
main line. To rest our bones we strolled along the plat- 
form, stepped into another car — and fell back in aston- 
ishment. Swinging from a peg near the ceiling was a hel- 
met we had seen before. It was none other than Hay- 



The Ways of the Hindu 223 

wood's. And beneath it, lying at full length on a bench, 
was Haywood himself. He had been released from prison, 
and had lost no time in taking the north-bound express — 
to overtake us, very likely. 

His joy at meeting us once more was greater than ours. 
We were unable to look pleased, and Marten grumbled un- 
der his breath at the luck that kept us in such harmful com- 
pany. 

In the early morning the train stopped at Howrah, a 
suburb of Calcutta, and Haywood alighted with us at the 
station. We crossed the Hoogly River on a floating bridge 
that connects Howrah with Calcutta, meeting crowds of 
coolies tramping to a day of toil in the city. The Hoogly 
was alive with natives sporting in the muddy waters. Be- 
low the bridge scores of ships lay at anchor ; native barges 
darted here and there among them; from the docks came 
the rattle of machinery and the shrill chatter of men loading 
freight on the boats. Here, at last, was a real city, with 
all its familiar uproar. My companions started off to visit 
some missionary, and I plunged aimlessly into the stream 
of people that surged through the dusty streets. 



CHAPTER XIX 

IN THE HEART OF INDIA 

Late that afternoon we met at the Sailors' Home. It 
was not long before Marten and I decided that we must 
rid ourselves of Haywood once for all. Go where we 
would, he was ever at our heels, bringing disgrace upon us. 
Picking pockets was his glee. When there was no other ex- 
citement, he took to filching small articles from the stores 
along the way. As we were returning to the Home along a 
crowded street on our second day in Calcutta, his behavior 
became unbearable. The natives of the big city did not 
spring aside when they came near a white man, as those in 
the country had done. Instead they were more likely to 
push him aside. To be jostled by a coolie was more than 
Haywood could stand. He started striking at those who 
pushed him, but could not reach them, for the street was 
crowded, and the higher-caste natives who annoyed us car- 
ried umbrellas. 

Suddenly he thought of a way to get even with them. 
Opening his pocket-knife, he marched boldly through the 
crowd, slashing wickedly at every sun-shade whose owner 
crowded against him. An angry murmur rose behind us. 
Before we had reached the Home, a screaming mob of 
tradesmen surged around us, waving ruined umbrellas in 
our faces. Certainly it was time to be rid of such a com- 
panion. It was useless to tell him of his faults. There 
was nothing left but to skip out when he was n't looking. 

Haywood ate heartily that evening. His plate was still 

224 



In the Heart of India 225 

heaped high with curry and rice when Marten and I left, 
to sit on a bench in the garden of the Home. 

" Look here, mate," said Marten in a stage-whisper, as 
soon as we were seated, " we must get away from that fel- 
low. The police will be running us in along with him some 
day." 

I nodded. A seaman came to stretch himself out in the 
grass near at hand, and we fell silent. Darkness was strid- 
ing upon us when a servant of the Home came to close the 
gate leading to the street. 

Suddenly Marten raised a hand and called to the gate- 
man. 

"Wait!" 

" Let 's get out," he said to me. 

"Where?" I asked. 

" Up country." 

" All right," I answered, springing to my feet. 

We slipped out through the gate, walked across a park 
among the statues of sahibs who had made history in India, 
past old Fort William, and down to the banks of the Hoogly. 
The tropical night had fallen, and above the city behind 
blazed a shining mass of stars. For an hour we tramped 
along the docks, jostled now and then by black stevedores 
and native seamen. The cobblestones under our feet gave 
way to a soft country road. A railway crossed our path, 
and we stumbled along it in the darkness. Out of the night 
rose a large two-story bungalow. 

" Trainmen's shack," said Marten. 

A freight train stood on the near-by track. A European 
in the uniform of a brakeman ran down the steps of the 
bungalow, a lantern in his hand. Behind him came a coolie, 
carrying his lunch-basket. 



226 Working My Way Around the World 

" Goin' out soon, mate? " bawled Martin. 

" All ready to start," answered the Englishman, peering 
at us a moment with the lantern high above his head, and 
hurrying on. 

" Think we '11 go along," shouted Martin. 

The brakeman was already swallowed up in the darkness ; 
but his voice came back to us out of the night : 

"All right!" 

A moment later the British engine shrieked, and the 
freight screamed by us. We grasped the rods of a high 
open car and swung ourselves up. On the floor, folded to 
the size of a large mattress, lay a waterproof canvas. We 
lay down on it. A cooling breeze, sweeping over the mov- 
ing train, lulled us to sleep. Once we were awakened by 
the roar of a passing express, and peered over the edge of 
the car to find ourselves on a switch. Then our train 
rattled on, and we stretched out again. A second time we 
were awakened when our train was turned off on to a side- 
track ; and the brakeman, passing by, called out that he had 
reached the end of his run. We climbed out, and, finding 
a grassy slope, lay down and slept out the night. 

The morning sun showed a large forest close at hand. A 
red, sandy roadway, deep-shaded by thick overhanging 
branches, led into the woods. We followed it. Here and 
there, in a tiny clearing, a scrawny native cooked a small 
breakfast over a fire of leaves and twigs before his grass 
hut. Above us sounded the song of a tropical bird. The 
pushing crowds and dull, ugly roar of Calcutta seemed hun- 
dreds of miles away. 

The forest opened and fell away on both sides, and we 
paused on the high grassy bank of a broad river that 
glistened in the slanting sunlight. Below, in two groups, 



In the Heart of India 227 

natives, men and women, were bathing. Along a road 
near the river stretched a one-row town of low huts, above 
which stood a government building and a little church. 

" Thunder! " snorted Marten. " Is this all we 've made? 
That old train must have been side-tracked half the time we 
slept. I know this burg. It 's Hoogly, not forty miles 
from Calcutta. But there 's a commissioner here. He 's 
the right kind — ticketed me to Calcutta four years ago. 
Don't believe he '11 remember me, either. Come on." 

We strolled on down the road. Before the government 
building a score of prisoners, with belts and heavy anklets 
of iron connected by chains, were piling cobblestones. 

We turned in at the gate of the park-like grounds, and 
followed a graveled walk toward a great white bungalow 
with windows overlooking a distant view of the sparkling 
Hoogly and the rolling plains beyond. From the veranda, 
curtained by trailing vines, richly clothed servants watched 
us, as we came near, with the half-ferocious, half-curious 
manner of faithful house-dogs. I did not intend to ask 
for a ticket, so I dropped on to a seat under a tree. A 
chatter of Hindustanee greeted my companion; a stout 
native rose from his heels and went inside the bungalow. 

Then something happened that I had never experienced 
before in all my Indian travels. A tall, fine-looking Eng- 
lishman, dressed in the whitest of ducks, stepped briskly out 
on to the veranda, and, seeming not to notice that we were 
mere penniless wanderers, called out: 

" I say, you chaps, come inside and have some breakfast." 

I should have been less astonished had he suddenly pointed 
a gun in our direction. I looked up, to see. Marten lean- 
ing weakly against a post. 

" I have only come with my mate, sir," I explained. 




228 Working My Way Around the World 

" It 's he who wants the ticket. I 'm only waiting, sir." 

" Then come along and have some breakfast while you 

wait," returned the Englishman. " Early risers have good 

appetites, and where would 
you buy anything fit to eat 
in Hoogly? I've finished, 
but Maghmood has covers 
laid for you." 

We entered the bunga- 
low on tiptoe, and sat 
down at a flower-decked 
table. Two turbaned serv- 
ants slipped noiselessly into 
the room and served us 
with food from other 
lands. A punkah-wallah 
on the veranda kept the 
great fans in motion. 
Upon me fell a strange 
feeling of having been in 
a scene like this before — 
somewhere — hundreds of 
years ago. Even here, then, on the banks of the Hoogly, 
men ate with knives and forks, from delicate china- 
ware, wiping their fingers on snow-white linen rather than 
on a leg of their trousers, and left fruit peelings on their 
plates instead of throwing them under the table. It seemed 
as if I were in a dream. 

" I told you," murmured Marten, finishing his steak and 
a long silence, and mopping his plate dry with a slice of 
bread plastered with butter from far-off Denmark ; " I told 
you he was the right sort." 






The Hindu street-sprinkler does 
not lay much dust 



In the Heart of India 229 

Maghmood entered to tell us we were to follow the com- 
missioner to his office, two miles distant. 

An hour later we were journeying contentedly north- 
westward in a crowded train that stopped at every village 
and cross-road. Marten had received a ticket to Banki- 
pore. In order to reach this city we had to change at Burd- 
wan. We alighted at this station three hours before the 
night express. A gazing crowd gathered around us as we 
halted to buy sweetmeats in the bazaars, and, flocking at our 
heels, quickly drew the attention of the native police to us. 

At that time Russia was at war with Japan, and the In- 
dian government, for some reason, was on the lookout for 
Russian spies. The police were ordered to watch all for- 
eigners in the country. The native policemen, who wanted 
to please the English officers, were very anxious to discover 
such spies. So they asked questions of every sahib stranger 
they met. 

Two lynx-eyed officers hung on our heels, and, following 
us to the station as night fell, joined a group of railway 
police on the platform. They talked together for a long 
time ; then they all lined up before the bench on wmich we 
were seated, and a sergeant drew out one of the small books 
that the government uses for recording facts about traveling 
Europeans. 

"Will the sahibs be pleased to give me their names?" 
coaxed the sergeant in a timid voice. 

I took the book and pencil from his hand, and wrote the 
answers to printed questions on the page. 

" And you, sahib? " said the officer, turning to Marten. 

" Oh, go chase yourself ! " growled my companion. " I 
ain't no Roossian. You got no business botherin' Euro- 
peans." 



230 Working My Way Around the World 

" The sahib must answer the questions or he cannot go 
on the train/' murmured the native. 

" How will you stop me from goin' ? " demanded Marten. 

The officer muttered something in his own language to 
his companions. 

" You would, would you ? " shouted Marten. 

" Ah! The sahib speaks Hindustanee? " gasped the ser- 
geant. " What is your name, please, sir?" 

" Look here," growled Marten; " I '11 give you my name 
if you '11 promise not to ask any more fool questions." 

The native smiled with delight, and raised his pencil. 

" And the name, sir? " 

" Higgeldy Piggeldy," said Marten. 

" Ah! And how is it spelled, please, sahib? " 

The sergeant wrote the words slowly and solemnly as my 
companion spelled them for him. 

" And which is the sahib's birthplace? " he coaxed. 

" Look here, now," roared Marten ; " did n't you say you 
would n't ask anything else? " 

"Ah! Yes, sahib," said the babu; "but we must have 
the informations. Please, sir, which is your birthplace ? " 

"If you don't chase yourself I'll break your neck!" 
roared Marten, springing to his feet. 

The officers fell over each other in their haste to get out 
of Marten's way. My companion returned to the bench 
and sat down in ill-tempered silence. The sergeant, urged 
forward by his fellow officers, came toward us again, and, 
standing ready to spring, addressed me in gentle tones : 

" Sahib, the police wish, please, sir, to know why the 
sahibs have come to Burdwan." 

" Because the local train dropped us here, and we had 
to wait for the express." 



In the Heart of India 231 

" But why have you not take the express all the time ? " 

" We were at Hoogly. It does n't stop there." 

"Then why have you not stay in the station? Why 
have you walk in the bazaars and in the temples ? " 

" To see the sights, of course." 

" But there are not sights in Burdwan. It is a dirty vil- 
lage and very poor and very small. Europeans are coming 
to Benares and to Calcutta, but they are not coming in 
Burdwan. Why have the sahibs come in Burdwan, and the 
sun is very hot? " 

" I told you why. The sun does n't bother us." 

" Then why have the sahibs bought sweets and chappaties 
in the bazaars? " 

" Because we were hungry." 

" Sahibs are not eating native food ; they must have Euro- 
pean food. Why have you bought these ? " 

" For goodness' sake, hit that fellow on the head with 
something! " burst out Marten. " I want to sleep." 

The sergeant moved away. several paces and continued his 
examination : 

" And why have the sahibs gone to the tern — ? " 

The shriek of an incoming train drowned the rest, and we 
hurried toward the European compartment. 

" You must not go in the train! " screamed the sergeant, 
while the group of officers danced excitedly around us. 
" Stop ! You must answer — " 

We stepped inside and slammed the door. 

" The train cannot be allowed to go ! " screeched the babu, 
racing up and down the platform. " The sahibs are not al- 
lowed to go. You must hold the train, sahib ! " he cried to 
a European conductor hurrying by. 

" Hold nothing." answered the conductor. " Are you 



232 Working My Way Around the World 

crazy? This is the Bombay mail/' And he blew his 
whistle. 

The sergeant grasped the edge of the open window with 
one hand, and, waving his note-book wildly in the other, 
raced along the platform beside us. 

' You must answer the questions, sahibs — " 

The train was rapidly gaining headway. 

" Get down, sahibs ! Come out ! You are not al- 
lowed — " 

He could keep the pace no longer. With a final shriek 
he let go his hold, and we sped on into the night. 

We halted late at night in Buxar, and took a slower train 
next morning to the holy city of Benares. The train was 
closely packed with wildly excited natives. Every window 
framed eager, longing faces straining for the first glimpse 
of the holy city. 

To many of our fellow travelers this trip was one they had 
dreamed of for years, and this twentieth of April would be 
the greatest day of their lives. For if they merely looked 
at the holy city, and at the river that flowed past, they be- 
lieved the sight helped to purify them of their sins, and 
assured them of a higher caste in their next life on earth. 

As we came round a low sand-hill a murmured chorus of 
outcries sounded above the rumble of the train. We went 
to the open window to see what had caused the excitement. 
There, a half mile distant, the holy river Ganges swept 
round from the eastward in a graceful curve and flowed on 
southward across our path. On the opposite shore, bathing 
its feet in the sparkling stream, sprawled the holy city. 

The train rumbled across the railway bridge, and halted 
on the edge of the city. We plunged into the narrow, 
crooked streets, and almost lost sight of each other as we 



In the Heart of India 233 

were swallowed up in a great whirlpool of people. We 
pushed our way forward only a short distance before we 
were tossed aside among the goods placed in front of the 
shops. Here we paused for breath, and then tried to go on. 
When we came to a corner, pushing crowds carried us 
down side streets where we had not chosen to go. People 
of all shades and castes, and from every part of India, 
swarmed through the streets. 

Holy bulls shouldered us aside as if they cared nothing 
for the color of our skins. Twice great elephants crossed 
our path. On the fronts and roofs of Hindu temples, 
monkeys, wearing glittering rings on every finger, scampered 
and chattered daringly. No wonder the natives thought 
that the souls of men lived in the bodies of these bold and 
lively beasts. 

We had been tossed back and forth through the winding 
streets for more than an hour, when a wild beating of drums 
and a wailing of music from pipes burst on our ears. 

" Religious procession ! " screamed Marten, dragging me 
after him up the steps of a temple. " We '11 have to stand 
here till it gets by. How are those for glad rags ? " 

Below us the street quickly filled with a parade of Hindus 
wearing strange costumes of all kinds and colors. To the 
wild, screaming music a thousand marchers kept uncertain 
step. One bold fellow was " made up " to look like an 
Englishman. He was dressed in a suit of shrieking checks 
that fitted his thin body as tightly as a glove ; on his feet 
were shoes with great, thick soles in which he might without 
harm have walked on red-hot coals. His face was so cov- 
ered with flour that he was far paler than the palest of 
Englishmen. Over his long hair he wore a close-cropped 
wig of sickly yellow ; and the helmet on his head was big 



234 Working My Way Around the World 

enough to give shade to four men. He was smoking a pipe, 
and he swung a queer-looking cane gaily back and forth as 
he walked. Every dozen yards he pretended that he had 
become very angry, and danced about madly, rushing toward 
the other paraders and striking wildly about him with his 
fists. In these fits of anger he never once opened his lips. 
The natives looking on laughed with delight. They thought 
he was acting just like a sahib. 

We fought our way onward to the center of the town, and 
climbed down the great stone stairway of another temple, 
where we could watch the pilgrims wash away their sins in 
the holy waters. Up and down the banks of the river 
Ganges, groups of thinly dressed natives, dripping from 
their baths in the holy waters, smoked bad-smelling ciga- 
rettes in the shadow of the temple, or bought holy food from 
the straw-roofed shacks. 

Bathing in the holy waters were men wearing almost no 
clothing, and women wearing winding sheets. From time 
to time bands of pilgrims covered with the dust of travel 
tumbled down the stairways and plunged eagerly into the 
river. For the Hindu believes that, no matter how badly 
a person has behaved, his sins can be washed away in the 
Ganges at the foot of Benares. 

The river did not look as if it could make one pure. Its 
waters are so muddy that a ray of sunshine will not pass 
through a glassful of it. I, for one, would be afraid to 
bathe in that fever infected flow of mud. Yet the native 
pilgrims splashed about in it, ducking their heads beneath 
the surface and dashing it over their faces ; they rinsed their 
mouths in it, scraped their tongues with sticks dipped in it, 
and blew it out of their mouths in great jets, as if they were 
determined to get rid of all the sin in their bodies. 



In the Heart of India 



235 






We went through the city, and reached the station in time 
for a " wash-up." Twice that day we had been taken for 
Eurasians (a Eurasian is a person who is half European and 
half Asiatic) ; so we thought it was about time to wash our 
faces. The station stood at the end of the city. Beyond 
it stretched a flat, sandy 
plain. Armed with a 
lump of soap of the color 
of maple-sugar, we slid ^ 
down the steep bank be- 
low the railway bridge, ^jzm&> 

with a mass of loose sand ^^^ 
and rolling stones. When ^™ 

we reached the spot, how- 
ever, Marten decided that 
he was " too tired " to 
turn dhoby, and stretched 
out in the shade on the 
bank. I waded out into 
the river, sinking half 
way to my knees in the 
mud. It would not have 
been impolite or out of 
place to undress at once, 
but there would certainly 
have been a sadly sunburned sahib ten minutes afterward. 
So I scrubbed my jacket while wearing my shirt, and the 
shirt while wearing the jacket, and wrapped the jacket 
around me while I soaked my trousers in waters filled with 
Hindu sins. 

" Say, mate," drawled Marten, as I daubed my trousers 
with the maple-sugar soap, " you '11 surely go to heaven fer 





I do a bit of laundry work wash- 
ing my coat in the Ganges below the 
city and at the same time keeping a 
good lookout for crocodiles 



236 Working My Way Around the World 

scrubbin' your rags in that mud. There 's always a bunch 
of Hindu gods hangin' around here. I don't want to dis- 
turb a honest workin'-man, o' course, but I 'd be so lonesome 
if you was gone that I 'm goin' to tell you that there 's one 
comin' to take you to heaven now, and if you 're finished 
with livin' — " 

I looked up suddenly. Barely ten feet away, the ugly 
snout of a crocodile was moving toward me. 

" Stand still ! " shouted Marten, as I struggled to pull my 
legs from the clinging mud. " He 's a god, I tell you. 
Besides, he 's probably hungry. Don't be so selfish." 

The trousers, well aimed, ended his speech suddenly as I 
reached dry land. After that I worked with wide-open 
eyes ; and before I was through with my washing I saw as 
many as fourteen of the river gods of India. 

We reached the station in time for the train, and arrived 
in Allahabad late that night. After walking half a mile 
from the station we found " The Strangers' Rest," a home 
for wanderers, closed. But the Irish superintendent was a 
light sleeper, and we were soon weighing down two charpoys 
under the trees. 

After breakfast the next morning I set out to explore 
the city alone, while my companion called on the commis- 
sioner. When evening came I was again sitting under the 
spreading trees near the " Rest," when I looked up and saw 
Marten turning slowly and sorrowfully in at the gate. He 
had been to ask the commissioner for a ticket. According 
to our plan, he had promised to ask for a pass to Kurachee, 
a city at the mouth of the Indus River. But he had made 
a mistake and had blurted out the familiar name of Bombay. 
He had received, therefore, a ticket to the city on the west 
coast. 



In the Heart of India 237 

Marten did not want to go to Bombay, because I had 
refused to go there with him. But he had the ticket, and 
the law required that he leave by the first train. Even if 
it had not, there was no one else to whom he could apply. 
He felt very sad about it — so much so, indeed, that he 
began to cry. To dry his tears I agreed to accompany 
him to the capital of the next district, where he could ask for 
a ticket that would take him my way. 

Before the night was over we had reached the town of 
Jubbulpore, where we passed a sharp-cornered rest in the 
station. Marten told a carefully worded story to the com- 
missioner of that district, and received a ticket to Jhansi. 
To get there he had to take a train southward until he 
reached the main line, where he could change cars and go 
northwest. I wished to go by another line that would take 
me through a wilder part of India. So we separated, prom- 
ising to meet again at Bina. 

The train on which I traveled was run by a Eurasian 
driver, who gave me a compartment in the car all to myself. 
The country we passed through was covered with hills and 
ridges, over which the train rose and fell like a ship crossing 
the waves of the ocean. On both sides of the track stretched 
a jungle where the vines and trees grew so thick and close 
together that even the sunshine could not pierce its way 
into the woods. The villages we passed were merely clus- 
ters of huts behind the railway station. Every time our 
train stopped at one of these places, the people flocked to 
the station to greet us. Now and then, as we went on, I 
caught sight of some kind of deer bounding away through 
the shrubbery; and once I saw that dreaded beast of India 
— a tiger. He was a lean, lively beast, more dingy in color 
than those we see in cages. He moved toward the track 



238 Working My Way Around the World 

rapidly, yet cautiously, vaulting over the low jungle shrub- 
bery in long, easy bounds. On the track he halted a mo- 
ment, gazed scornfully at our slowly moving engine, then 
sprang into the thicket and was gone. 

We halted at noon at the station of Damoh. Never 
thinking that anyone would enter my compartment, I left 
my knapsack on a bench, and went to eat lunch in the station 
buffet. When I returned a strange sight greeted my eyes. 
Before the door of my compartment was grouped the popu- 
lation of Damoh. Inside stood a Hindu policeman, in 
khaki uniform and red turban. Under one arm he held my 
guide-book, a spool of film, and my lunch wrapped in a leaf, 
that he had taken from my knapsack. The sack itself, half 
a dozen letters, and my camera cover lay on the floor at his 
feet. In some way he had found the springs that opened 
the back of the camera, and, having laid that on the bench 
beside him, was cheerfully turning the screw that unwound 
the ruined film while his fellow countrymen looked on with 
delight. All the pictures I had taken on that trip were lost 
to me because of his meddling. 

The natives fled when they saw me coming, and the police- 
man dropped my possessions on the floor and dashed for 
the shelter of the station-master's office. I followed after 
to make complaint, and came upon him cowering behind a 
heap of baggage, with his hands tightly clasped over the 
badge that bore his number. 

" He says," explained the Eurasian station-agent, " that 
it is his duty to look in empty compartments for lost arti- 
cles, but that he has not taken the littlest thing, not even a 
box of matches, and asks that you forgive him. If you 
cannot put the queer machine together again, he will." 

I went on to Bina, where I stayed three days without 



In the Heart of India 239 

seeing anything of Marten. For some time I supposed he 
had failed to find me there and had gone on without me. 
But three days later, when I arrived in Agra, I found in a 
letter-rack at the station a post-card across which my name 
was misspelled in bold blue letters. On the back was 
scrawled this simple message : 

Godawara, India, April 25th. 
Felow beech comer: 

Missed the train to Bina becaze I knoked the block off a black 
polisman. They draged me down hear and the comish finned me 
fifteen dibs and then payed the fine and put me rite as far as Agra. 
I will pick you up ther on the 27th. yours, 

Busted Head. 

The twenty-seventh was past. The ex-pearl-fisher must 
have gone on, for I saw him no more. 

The next afternoon I went to see the wonderful Taj 
Mahal, a great white marble building erected by a king as 
the burial-place of his wife. Then I took the night train to 
Delhi. In that city I found almost an Arab world. I began 
to fancy that I was back in Damascus, the stores and people 
were so much like those of " Shaam." The calls to prayer, 
the fez headdress, the lean-faced Bedouins with their trains 
of camels, even the stray dogs, reminded me that there was 
a time when the followers of Mohammed ruled a large part 
of India. But there were also many Arab eating-shops 
where the keepers were not afraid to let me pause to choose 
my food from the steaming kettles that stood near the door- 
way. 

It was these signs of a Western world, perhaps, that soon 
brought to my mind that my side trip " up country " had 
carried me a thousand miles out of my way. I awoke one 
morning with my mind made up to turn eastward once more. 



240 Working My Way Around the World 

I spent that day perspiringly as chief ball-chaser for the 
Delhi Tennis Club, fagging three games for the district com- 
missioner and as many more for his friends. They did not 
reward me at once, however, and at twilight I turned back 
penniless toward Delhi, four miles distant. 

The stillness of the summer night was broken only by the 







i& 



A lady of Delhi out for a drive in a bullock cart 

murmuring hum of insects, or by the leaves moving softly 
in the gentle breeze. Now and then I heard the patter of 
native feet along the dusty roadway. Once I was startled 
by a loud chorus of men's voices that burst out suddenly 
from the darkness in words of my own language; and a 
moment later a squad of English soldiers trooped by me, arm 
in arm, singing at the top of their lungs, " The Place Where 
the Punkah-wallah Died." Plainly they were returning to 



In the Heart of India 241 

their barracks after spending a merry afternoon on leave. 
They disappeared down the road, and I tramped on into 
the silence of the night. 

I had to find lodging somewhere; for, although the 
weather was warm, Hindu thieves were numerous. As I 
crossed the railway tracks I recalled the fine " hotel " we had 
occupied in Puri. The next moment I slid down the bank 
into the broad railroad yards. Head-lights of puffing switch 
engines sent streaks of bright light through the blackness of 
the night. I wandered here and there, looking for an empty 
car. There were freight cars without number, an endless 
forest of them ; but they were all closed or loaded with 
goods. Passenger cars there were none. I struck off 
boldly across the tracks toward the lighted station. Com- 
ing into the blinding glare of a head-light, I suddenly felt 
myself falling down, down, into space. Long after the 
world above had disappeared, I landed in utter darkness, un- 
hurt except for the barking of my nose. Near at hand 
several live coals gleamed like watching eyes. I had walked 
into a cinder-pit on the track near the engine-house. 

Giving a cat-like spring from the top of the largest heap 
of ashes, I grasped the rail above and pulled myself out. 
Beyond the station lay a thickly wooded park known as 
Queen's Gardens. I climbed over the railing and stretched 
out in the long grass. But the foliage overhead offered no 
such shelter as had the trees of equatorial Ceylon, and I 
awoke in the morning dripping wet from the falling dew. 

That afternoon I received a ticket and two rupees for 
chasing the tennis-balls, and I returned to Calcutta Saturday 
night. 



CHAPTER XX 

BEYOND THE GANGES 

Two hours after my arrival in Calcutta, there was seen 
making his way through the streets of that city a youth 
who had been turned away from the Sailors' Home by a 
hard-hearted manager because he had once left that place 
without permission for a trip " up country." In his pocket 
was a single rupee. His cotton garments were threadbare 
rags through which the torrid sun had reddened his once 
white skin. Under one arm he carried a tattered, sun- 
burned bundle of the size of a camera. In short, 't was I. 

Later, with much trouble, I gained entrance into the 
Seamen's Mission. It was here that I made the acquaint- 
ance of the only guest of the place who paid his expenses. 
He was a clean, strong young man of twenty-five, named 
Gerald James, from Perth, Australia. He had been a 
kangaroo-hunter in his native land, and later a soldier in 
South Africa. After the war there he had turned north- 
ward with two companions. In Calcutta his partners had 
become policemen ; but James, weary of bearing arms, had 
taken a position as salesman in a department-store. 

Four days after my arrival a chance meeting with a Ger- 
man traveler who spoke no English raised my wealth to 
seven rupees. I had also made the acquaintance of a con- 
ductor who promised to let me ride as far as Goalando, a 
city on the banks of the Ganges. It was on the day fol- 
lowing that I decided to escape from Calcutta and continue 
my journey eastward. 

As I lay stretched on the roof of the building, that night, 

242 



Beyond the Ganges 243 

the man beside me rolled over in his blanket and peered at 
me through the darkness. 

" That you, Franck? " he whispered. 

The voice was that of James the Australian. 

" Yes," I answered. 

" Some of the lads," came the answer, " told me you 
were going to hit the trail again." 

" I 'm off to-morrow night." 

"Where away?" 

" Somewhere to the east." 

The Australian fell silent a moment, and his voice sounded 
as if he were apologizing when he spoke again : 

" I quit my job to-day. There 's the plague and the 
summer coming on, and they expected me to take orders 
from a babu manager. 

" I 'd like to leave Calcutta and go to Hong-Kong. 
Do you think you '11 come anywhere near there? " 

" I expect to be there inside of a couple of months." 

"How if I go with you?" murmured James. "I've 
had some experience tramping round Australia after kan- 
garoos." 

"Agreed," I answered; for, of all those at the institute, 
there was no one I should sooner have chosen as a partner 
for the rough days to come than James. 

" How '11 we make it?" he inquired. "It's a long 
jump." 

" I '11 set you right to Goalando," I replied. " We can 
go down on the Ganges boat to Chittagong. From there I 
think we can beat our way through the jungle to Mandalay. 
Then we '11 drop down to Rangoon. They say shipping is 
good there. But let 's have it understood that when we 
reach Hong-Kong each one goes where he likes." 



244 Working My Way Around the World 

" All right," said the Australian, lying down once more. 

Thursday passed quickly in looking over our belong- 
ings; and, having stuffed them all into James's carpet-bag, 
we set off at nightfall for the station. 

"What! Two?" cried. the conductor, when I had in- 
troduced James. " Well, pile on." 

He passed on, and, as the train started, James tumbled 
into an empty compartment after me. When daylight 
awakened us, our car stood alone on a side-track at the end 
of the line. 

Goalando was a village of mud huts, perched on a slimy, 
sloping bank of the Ganges River, like turtles ready to slip 
into the stream at the first sign of danger. 

Two days later we reached Chittagong after dark night 
had fallen. 

As the sun was setting the next afternoon, we climbed 
the highest of the green hills in Chittagong to seek infor- 
mation from the district commissioner; for the natives in 
the city knew nothing of the route to Mandalay. The gov- 
ernor, aroused from a Sunday afternoon nap on his vine- 
curtained veranda, received us kindly, even delightedly, and, 
having called a servant to look after our thirst, went inside 
to astonish his wife with the news that he had European 
callers. That lady, after being properly introduced, con- 
sented to play upon the piano for us. 

White men do not often come to Chittagong. Chatting 
like old acquaintances, with the district ruler stretched out 
in a reclining chair between us, we came near to forgetting, 
for a time, that we were mere beach-combers. 

" And now, of course," said the governor, when James 
had told him about our journey from Calcutta, " you will 
wait for the steamer to Rangoon? " 



Beyond the Ganges 245 

" Why, no, Mr. Commissioner,"' I answered; "we're 
going to walk overland to Mandalay, and we took the lib- 
erty of calling on you to — " 

" Mandalay ! " gasped the Englishman, dropping his slip- 
pered feet to the floor. " Walk to Man — Why, my dear 
fellow, come here a moment." 

He rose and stepped to a corner of the veranda, and, 
raising an arm, pointed away to the eastward. 

" That," he said almost sadly, " is the way to Mandalay. 
Does that look like a country to be crossed on foot? " 

It certainly did not. Beyond the river lay an unexplored 
wilderness. Range after range of bold hills and rocky 
mountain chains lay beyond the forest, rising higher and 
higher until they were lost in the blue and haze of the east- 
ern sky. At the very edge of the river began a vine-choked 
tropical jungle, covering hill and valley as far as the eye 
could see, and broken nowhere in all its extent by a clear- 
ing, or even by the beginning of a pathway. 

" There," went on the commissioner, " is one of the 
wildest regions under British rule. Tigers abound ; snakes 
sun themselves on every bush ; wild animals lie in wait in 
every thicket. The valleys are full of wild men, savage 
outlaws that even the government fears ; and the spring 
floods have made the mountain streams raging torrents. 
There is absolutely nothing to guide you. If you suc- 
ceeded in traveling a mile after crossing the river, you 
would be hopelessly lost; and, if you were not, what would 
you eat and drink in that wilderness ? " 

" Why," said James, " we 'd eat the wild animals and 
drink the mountain streams. Of course, we 'd carry a 
compass. That 's what we do in the Australian bush." 

" We thought you might have a map," I put in. 



246 Working My Way Around the World 

The commissioner stepped into the bungalow. The 
music ceased and the player followed her husband out to 
the veranda. 

" This," said the commissioner, spreading out a chart he 
carried, " is the latest map of the region. You must n't 
suppose, as many people do, that all India has been mapped 
out. You see for yourselves that there is nothing between 
Chittagong and the Irawaddy River but a few wavy lines 
to show mountain ranges." That 's all any map shows, and 
all any civilized man knows of that part. Bah! Your 
scheme is idiotic. You might as well try to walk to Llassa." 

He rolled up the map and dropped again into his chair. 

" By the way," he asked, " why don't you stop at the 
Sailors' Home to-night? " 

" I never imagined for a moment," I replied, " that there 
was a Home in a little town like this." 

"There is, and a fine one," answered the commissioner; 
" and just waiting for someone to occupy it." 

" No place for us," retorted James. " We 've spent our 
last coin." 

" Nothing to do with it," cried the Englishman. " Money 
or no money, you '11 stop there while you 're here. I '11 
send word to the manager at once." 

The Sailors' Home of Chittagong was a wonder in com- 
fort and beauty. The city itself was a garden spot. The 
Home was a white bungalow set in the edge of the forest 
on a river-bank. The parlor was carpeted with mats, the 
dining-room furnished with punkahs. In another room 
stood a pool-table and — wonder of wonders — a piano ! 

Three native servants, housed in a near-by cottage, were 
ready to come when called and wait on us. For, though 
weeks had passed since a sailor had stopped at the Home, 






Beyond the Ganges 247 

everything was as ready for our accommodation as if the 
manager had been expecting us. 

An hour after we had moved into the bungalow, we were 
resting in veranda chairs with our feet on the railing, watch- 
ing the cook chasing one of the chickens that later appeared 
before us in our evening curry, when a white man turned 
into the grounds and walked lazily toward us, swinging 
his cane and striking off a head here and there among the 
tall flowers that bordered the path. When he reached the 
shade of the bungalow, he sprang up the steps with out- 
stretched hand, and, having expressed his joy at the meet- 
ing, sat down beside us. Whoever he was, he was an ex- 
pert story-teller, and entertained us with tales of life in the 
army until the shades of night fell. Suddenly he stopped 
at the most interesting point of a story to cry out: 

" The commissioner sent for me this afternoon." 

" That so? " asked James. 

' Yes. He thinks you fellows are going to start to 
Mandalay on foot. Mighty good joke, that' v ; and he fell 
to chuckling, while he glanced sidewise at us. 

" No joke at all," I put in. " We are going on foot, just 
as soon as we can find the road." 

"Don't try it!" cried the Englishman, raising his cane 
on high. " I have n't introduced myself, but I am chief 
of police for Chittagong. The commissioner has given 
orders that you must not go. The police have been ordered 
to watch you, the boatmen forbidden to row you across 
the river. Don't try it." With that, he said no more about 
it, and began telling another yarn. 

Late that night, when James had finally agreed to leave 
off making strange noises on the piano, we made a sur- 
prising discovery. There was not a bed in the Home! 



248 Working My Way Around the World 

While James hurried off to ask a servant about it, I went 
carefully through each room with the parlor lamp, peering 
under tables and opening drawers, in the hope of finding at 
least a ship's hammock. I was still searching when the 
Australian returned with a frightened native, who assured 
us that there had never been a bed or a charpoy in the 
Home. Just why, he could not say. Probably because the 
manager babu had forgotten to get them. 

So we turned in side by side on the pool-table, and 
took turns in falling off at regular intervals through the 
night. 

With the first gray light of morning we slipped out the 
back door of the bungalow and struck off through the for- 
est toward the uninhabited river-bank beyond. For, in 
spite of the warning of the chief of police, we had decided 
to try the overland journey. 

To get past the police was easy; to escape the jungle, 
quite a different matter. A full two hours we tore our way 
through the undergrowth along the river without finding 
a single spot in the wall-like eastern bank that we dared 
to swim for. James grew peevish and cross; we both be- 
came painfully hungry. And finally we turned back, prom- 
ising ourselves to continue hunting for an opening in the 
forest beyond the river on the following day. 

The servants at the Home, knowing that sahibs often 
take early morning strolls, grinned cheerfully when they 
saw us returning, and told us breakfast was ready. While 
we were eating, the chief of police bounded into the room, 
told a new story, and said that the commissioner wished to 
see us at once ; then bounded away again, complaining that 
he was being worked to death. 

When we reached his bungalow on the hill-top, we found 






Beyond the Ganges 249 

the ruler of the district pacing back and forth between rows 
of native secretaries and assistants. 

" I have given orders that you are not to start for Man- 
dalay," he began shortly. 

" But how shall we get out any other way? " demanded 
James. 

" If you were killed in the jungle," went on the governor, 
as if he had heard nothing, " your governments would blame 
me. But, of course, I have no intention of keeping you in 
Chittagong. I have arranged, therefore, with the agents 
of the weekly steamer, to give you deck passages, with 
European food, to Rangoon. Apply to them at once, and 
be ready to start to-morrow morning." 

In a blinding tropical shower we were rowed out to the 
steamer next morning. For four days following we lolled 
about the winch (a crank for raising weights) on which 
the Chinese stewards served our European " chow." The 
steamer drifted slowly down the eastern coast of the Bay 
of Bengal, and. rounding the delta of the Irawaddy River 
on the morning of May thirteenth, dropped anchor three 
hours later in the harbor of Rangoon. 



CHAPTER XXI 

TRAMPING THROUGH BURMA 

At the time we reached Rangoon, that town was filled 
with sailors who had been looking for a chance to " sign 
on " for months past, with no success. Moreover, they 
assured me that there was no work ashore, that the city 
was suffering from the plague, and that we had fallen upon 
the most unlucky port in the Orient. 

Nevertheless, we were there, and we had to make the 
best of it. We struck off through the city to see the sights. 
The native town, squatting on the flat plain along the 
river, had streets as wide and straight as those of Western 
cities. There were no sidewalks, of course. People on 
foot walked among the wagons and carts, and disputed the 
way with donkeys and human beasts of burden. A flat 
city it was, with small two-story huts built on stilts. Above 
it gleamed a few golden pagodas, and high above all else 
soared the pride of Burma, the Shwe Dagon pagoda. 

There are probably as many pagodas in East India and 
China as there are churches in our own country. A pagoda 
is a temple containing idols or statues of gods which the 
people w r orship. We climbed the endless stairway up into 
the great Shwe Dagon in company with hundreds of natives 
carrying their shoes in their hands. We watched them 
wandering among the glittering statues, setting up lighted 
candles or spreading out blossoms before them, bowing 
until their faces touched the floor, but purring all the time 
at long cigars. While we gazed, a breathless woman with 

250 



Tramping Through Burma 251 

closely cropped hair pushed past us, and laid before an 
idol a braid of oily jet-black hair. 

Outside once more, we stood looking up until our necks 
ached at the towering Shwe Dagon, which was covered 
from peak to swollen base with brightest gold. It was all 
too brilliant in the blazing sunlight. When we turned aside 
and looked into the shadows to rest our eyes, tiny pagodas 
floated before our vision for a long time afterward. 

" Mate,' 1 said James, later in the day, as we stood before 
a world map in the Sailors' Home. " it looks to me as if 
we 'd come here to stay. There ' s nothing doing in the 
shipping line here, and not a chance to earn the price of 
a deck passage to Singapore. And, if we could, it 's a long 
jump from there to Hong-Kong." 

"Aye," put in a grizzled seaman, limping forward; 
" ye '11 be lucky lads if ye make yer get-away from Rangoon. 
But once ye get on the beach in Singapore, ye '11 die of ould 
age afore iver ye see 'Ong-Kong, if that 's 'ow yer 'eaded. 
Why, mates, that place is alive with sailors that 's been 
'ung up there so long they 'd not know 'ow to eat with a 
knife if iver they got back to a civilized country. Take 
my word for it, and keep away from Singapore." 

" It would seem foolish, anyway," I remarked to James, 
" to go to Singapore. It 's a good nine hundred miles from 
here, a week of loafing around in some old tub to get there, 
and a longer jump back up north — even if we don't get 
stuck there." 

" But what else is there for us to do? " objected James. 

" See how narrow the Malay Peninsula is," I went on, 
pointing to the map. " Bangkok is almost directly east of 
here. We 'd save miles of travel by going overland, and 
run no risk of being tied up for months in Singapore." 



252 Working My Way Around the World 

" But how? " demanded the Australian. 

" Walk, of course." 

The sailors grouped about us burst out in a roar of laugn- 
ter. 

" Aye ; ye 'd walk across the Peninsula like ye 'd swim 
to Madras," chuckled one of them. " It 's bats ye have 
in yer belfry from a touch o' the sun." 

" But Hong-Kong — " I began. 

" If it 's 'Ong-Kong, ye '11 go to Singapore," continued 
the seaman, " or back the other way. There 's no man 
goes round the world in the north 'emisphere without touch- 
ing Singapore. Put that down in yer log." 

"If we walk across the Peninsula,'' I went on, still ad- 
dressing James, " it would — " 

" Yes/' put in an old fellow T , " it would be a new and 
onusual way of committin' suicide — original, interestin', 
maybe slow, but blamed sure." 

" Now look 'ere, lads," said the old seaman, almost in 
tears, " d' ye know anything about that country? There 's 
no wilder savages nowhere than the Siamese. I know 'em. 
When I was sailin' from Singapore to China, that 's fourt — 
fifteen year gone, we was bio wed into the bay, an' put 
ashore fer water. We rowed by thousands o' dead babies 
floatin' down the river. We 'ad n't no more 'n stepped 
ashore when down come a yelpin' bunch o' Siamese, with 
knives as long as yer arm, an' afore we could shove off 
they ' d kilt my mate an' another and — chopped 'em all to 
pieces. Them 's the Siamese, an' the wild men in the 
mountains is worse." 

In short, the " boys " had so much to say against such 
a trip that w T e were forced to go out into the street to con- 
tinue our planning. For, in spite of their jeers, I still be- 



Tramping Through Burma 253 

lieved the overland trip was possible, and it would be more 
interesting to travel through a wilderness that had never 
before been explored. 

James told me he was " game for anything," and we be- 
gan studying maps for trails and rivers. Natives who had 
lived in Rangoon all their lives could tell us nothing what- 
ever of the wilds seven miles east of the city. 

Late one afternoon, as we were lounging in the Home 
talking it over, an Englishman in khaki uniform burst in 
upon us. 

" Are you the chaps," he began, " who are talking of 
starting for Bangkok on foot?" 

" We Ve been asking the way," I answered. 

" Well, save yourselves the trouble," returned the offi- 
cer. " There is no way. The trip can't be made. You 'd 
be killed, and your government would come back at us for 
letting you go. I have orders from the chief of police that 
you are not to leave Rangoon except by sea, and I have 
warned the police on the east side of the city to head you 
off. Thought I 'd tell you." 

" Thanks," muttered James ; " but we '11 hold down Ran- 
goon for a while yet, anyway." 

But of course we could not give up the plan. One 
afternoon, as the manager of the Home was sleeping, we 
laid hold on the knapsack we had left in his keeping, and 
struck off through the crowded native town. 

" This is no good," objected James. " All the streets 
leading east are guarded." 

" The railroad to Mandalay is n't," I replied. " We '11 
run up the line out of danger, and strike out from there." 

The Australian halted at a tiny drug-store, and, awak- 
ening the barelegged clerk, bought twenty grains of quinine. 



254 Working My Way Around the World 

" For jungle fever," he muttered as he tucked the package 
away in his helmet. That was our " outfit " for a journey 
that might last one month or six. In the knapsack were 
two cotton suits and a few ragged shirts. As for weapons, 
we had not even a penknife. 

A mile from the Home we entered a small station, bought 
tickets to the first important town, and a few minutes later 
were hurrying northward. James settled back in a cor- 
ner, and fell to singing to himself: 

" On the road to Mandalay, 
Where the flying-fishes play — " 

About us lay low rolling hills, deep green with tropical 
vegetation. Behind sparkled the golden tower of the Shwe 
Dagon pagoda, growing smaller and ever smaller, until the 
night, falling quickly, blotted it out. We fell asleep, and, 
awakening as the train pulled into Pegu, spent the rest of 
the night in two willow rockers in the waiting-room. 

Dawn found us already astir. A fruit-seller in the ba- 
zaars, given to early rising, served us breakfast. We did 
not know the directions, however, and had to wait for the 
rising sun to show us which way was east. When we saw 
it peering boldly over the horizon, we were off. 

A sandy highway led forth from the village, but soon 
swung northward ; and we struck across an untracked plain. 
Far away to the eastward were rocky hills, deep blue in 
color, foot-hills of wild mountain chains that we would 
have to cross later. But around us lay a stretch of sandy 
lowlands, dull and flat, with never a hut or a human being 
in sight. 

Ten miles of plodding, without even a mud-hole in which 
to quench our thirst, brought us to a crowded village of 



Tramping Through Burma 255 

bamboo huts hidden away in a tangled wood. A pack of 
dogs came leaping toward us, barking noisily. We drove 
them off and drank our fill, while the natives stood about 
us, staring curiously. As we started on again, a babu 
pushed his way through the group and invited us to his 
bungalow. He was employed on the new railway line that 
was being built from Pegu to Moulmein, and which when it 
was completed was to bring him the title of station-master in 
his own town. In honor of his future position he was 
already wearing a brilliant uniform, designed by himself, 
which made his fellow townsmen gaze in wonder. 

We squatted w r ith him on the floor of his open hut, and 
made away with a dinner of rice, fruit, bread-cakes, and — 
red ants. No Burmese lunch would be complete without 
the last. When we offered to pay for the meal, the babu 
rose, chattering with anger, and would not pardon us until 
we had patted him on the back and put our thin pocket- 
books out of sight. 

A few miles beyond the village we came upon a gang 
of men and women at work on the new railroad. There 
were at least three hundred of them, all Hindus, for the 
Burman scorns coolie labor. There was no machinery. A 
few scooped up the earth with shovels in the shallow 
trenches; the others swarmed up the embankment in end- 
less line, carrying flat baskets of earth on their heads. 

Nightfall found us still plodding on in a lonely jungle. 
We had heard that a division engineer lived just across the 
Sittang River, and we were determined to reach his bunga- 
low before midnight. Not long afterward we were brought 
to a sudden halt at the bank of the river. Under the 
moon's rays the broad sheet of water showed dark and 
dangerously rough, racing by with the swiftness of a moun- 



256 Working My Way Around the World 

tain stream. A light twinkled high up above the opposite 
shore nearly half a mile away — too far to swim in that 
rushing flood. I tore myself free from the entangling 
bushes, and, making a trumpet of my hands, bellowed across 
the water. 

For a time only the echo answered. Then a faint cry 
was borne to our ears, and we caught the Hindustanee 
words, " Ouam hai? " (" Who is it? ") 

I took deep breath and shouted into the night : 

" Do sahib hai ! Engineer sampan, key sampan key 
derah? " 

A moment of silence. Then the answer came back, soft, 
yet distinct, like a near-by whisper : 

" Acha, sahib" ("All right"). Even at that distance, 
we could tell that it w T as the humble voice of a timid Hindu 
coolie. 

A speck of light moved down to the level of the river; 
then, rising and falling in regular time as if someone were 
carrying a torch, it came steadily nearer. We waited 
eagerly; yet half an hour passed before there appeared a 
flat-bottomed sampan rowed by three struggling Hindus 
whose brown skins gleamed in the light of a flickering lan- 
tern. Evidently they thought we were railway officials. 
While two wound their arms around the bushes to hold 
the boat steady, the third sprang ashore with a respectful 
greeting, and, picking up our knapsack, dropped into the 
boat behind us. 

With a shout tl^e others let go of the bushes, and the three 
grasped their oars and pulled with all their strength. The 
racing current carried us far down the river ; but we swung 
at last into more quiet water under the shadow of a bluff, 
and, creeping slowly up the stream, reached the other side. 



Tramping Through Burma 257 

A boatman stepped out with our bundle, and, zigzagging 
up the side of the hill, dropped the bag on the veranda of 
a bungalow at the top, shouted a " sahib hai," and fled 
into the night. 

The next moment an Englishman flung open the door with 
a bellow of delight. He was a noisy, good-hearted giant, 
who insisted on our stopping at his bungalow for the night. 
I dropped my bespattered knapsack on the top step and 
followed my companion inside. When our thirst had been 
quenched, we followed the Englishman to the bath-room, 
where we plunged our heads and arms into great bowls of 
cool water, and, greatly refreshed, took our places at the 
table. 

We learned that our host was an engineer of the new 
line, a soldier of fortune who had " mixed " in everything 
from railway building to battles and wars on three con- 
tinents, and who knew more geography than can be found 
in an atlas. His bungalow was a palace in the wilderness; 
he said that he earned his money to spend, and that he paid 
four rupees a pound for Danish butter without wasting a 
thought on it. 

We slept on the veranda high above the river, and, in 
spite of the thirty-two miles in our legs and the fever that 
fell upon James during the night, we rose with the dawn, 
eager to be off. As we took our leave the engineer held 
out to us a handful of rupees. 

" just to buy your chow on the way, lads," he smiled. 

" No, no ! " protested James, edging away. " We've 
taken enough from you already." 

" Nonsense! " cried the adventurer. " Don't be a dunce. 
We Ve all been in the same boat, and I 'm only paying back 
a little of what 's fallen to me." 



258 Working My Way Around the World 

When we still refused to take it, he called us cranks and 
no true soldiers of fortune, and took leave of us at the 
edge of the veranda. 

Sittang was a mere bamboo village with a few grass- 
grown streets that faded away in the surrounding wilder- 
ness. At one time we lost the path and plunged on aim- 
lessly for hours through a tropical forest. Noonday had 
passed before we broke out upon an open plain where the 
railway embankment began again, and satisfied our scream- 
ing thirst in the hut of a babu employed by the railway com- 
pany. 

Beyond, walking was less difficult. The wildly scram- 
bling jungle had been laid open for the railroad that was 
to be built ; and where the tangled vegetation pressed upon 
us, we had only to climb to the top of the newly made 
bank and plod on. The country was not the lonely waste 
of the day before. Where bananas and cocoanuts and 
jack-fruits grow, there are human beings to eat them, and 
now and then a howling of dogs told us that we were near 
a cluster of native huts tucked away in a fruitful grove. 

Every few miles we came upon gangs of coolies, who fell 
to chattering excitedly when we came into view, and, drop- 
ping shovels and baskets, squatted on their heels, staring 
until we had passed, paying no attention to the maddened 
screaming of their high-caste bosses. Good bungalows for 
engineers were being built on high places along the way. 
The carpenters were Chinamen, who seemed to work faster 
than the Hindus. 

We saw more and more of these wearers of the pigtail 
as we continued our travels on into Burma. Many of them 
kept stores. They were shrewd, grasping fellows. 

We came to the end of the embankment for the new rail- 



Tramping Through Burma 259 

road, and tramped on into an open country where there were 
many streams through which we had to wade or swim. We 
were knee-deep in one of these when there sounded close at 
hand a snort like the spouting of a whale. I glanced in 
fright at the weeds growing in the river about us. From the 
muddy water were thrust a dozen ugly black snouts. 

" Crocodiles ! ' ' screamed James, turning tail and splash- 
ing by me. 

" But hold on! " I cried, before we had reached the bank. 
" These things seem to have horns/' 

The creatures that had so startled us w T ere harmless 
w T ater-buffaloes, which, being freed from their day's labor, 
had plunged into the muddy stream to escape from flies and 
the blazing sun. 

From there the route turned southward, and the red 
sunshine beat in our faces throughout the third day's tramp. 
We passed several villages of brown-skinned natives, and 
the jungle was broken here and there by thirsty rice-fields. 

As the day was dying, however, w 7 e tramped along a 
railway embankment between two dark and unpeopled for- 
ests. We were almost ready to lie down and sleep out of 
doors, when we came upon a path leading into the forest. 
Hoping to find some empty shack left by a railway gang, 
we turned aside and tumbled down the bank. The trail 
wound away through the jungle, and brought us, a mile 
from the line, to a grassy clearing in the center of which 
stood a bungalow. 

It w^as one of the public rest houses kept by the British 
government for sahibs traveling through the wilds. This 
one seemed to be deserted, for there were no servants about. 
We climbed the steps, and, settling ourselves in veranda 
chairs, stretched our weary legs and listened to the hum- 



260 Working My Way Around the World 

ming of countless insects. We might have fallen asleep 
where we were, had we not been hungry and choking with 
thirst. 

Like every house in British India, the bungalow stood 
wide open. I rose and wandered through the building, 
lighting my way with matches and peering into every cor- 
ner for a bottle of water or a sleeping servant. In each of 
the two bedrooms there were two canvas charpoys; in the 
main room a table littered" with tattered books and maga- 
zine leaves in English ; in the back room several pots and 
kettles. There was plenty of water also — a tubful of it 
in a closet opening out of one of the bedrooms. But who 
could say how many travel-stained sahibs had bathed in 
it? 

I returned to the veranda, and we took to shouting our 
wants into the jungle. Only the jungle replied, and we 
climbed down the steps and went around the building, less 
in the hope of finding any one than to escape the tempta- 
tion of the bath-tub. Behind the bungalow stood three 
ragged huts. The first was empty. In the second we 
found a snoring Hindu stretched on his back on the dirt 
floor, close to a dying fire of sticks. 

We woke him. He sprang to his feet with a frightened 
" Acha sahib, pawnee hai," and ran to fetch a chcttic of 
water — not because we had asked for it, but because he 
well knew the first need of travelers in the tropics. 

" Now we would eat, O chowkee dar," said James in 
Hindustanee. " Julty karow " (" Hurry up"). 

" Acha, sahib," repeated the cook. 

He tossed a few sticks on the fire, set a kettle over them, 
emptied into it the water from another chcttie, and, catch- 
ing up a blazing stick, trotted with a loose-kneed wabble 



Tramping Through Burma 261 

to the third hut. There sounded one long-drawn squawk, 
a muffled cackling of hens, and the Hindu returned, hold- 
ing a chicken by the head and swinging it round and round 
as he ran. Catching up a knife, he slashed the fowl from 
throat to tail, snatched off skin and feathers with a few 
skilful jerks, and in less than three minutes after his awak- 
ening our supper was cooking. 

We returned to the veranda, followed by the chozvkee dar, 
who lighted a crippled-looking lamp on the table within and 
trotted away. He came back soon after to clear away the 
plates and chicken-bones. After paying him the last of 
our coppers, we rolled our jackets and shoes into pillows, 
and turned in. 

We slept an hour, perhaps, during the night. A flock of 
roosters crowed every time they saw a new-born star, and 
dozens of lizards made the night miserable. There must 
have been a whole army of these pests in the bungalow. 
They were great, green-eyed reptiles from six inches to a 
foot long. Almost before the light was blown out, one 
on the ceiling struck up his song; another on the wall be- 
side me joined in; two more in a corner gave answering 
cry, and the night concert had begun : 

She-kak! shc-kak! she-kak! 

Don't fancy for a moment that the cry of the Indian lizard 
is the gentle murmur of the cricket or the tree-toad. It 
sounds more like the squawking of an ungreased bullock- 
cart : 

She-kak! she-kak! she-kak! 

To try to drive them off was worse than useless. The 
walls and ceiling, being made of grasses and reeds, offered 
more hiding-places for creeping things than a hay-stack. 
When I fired a shoe at the nearest, a shower of branches 



262 Working My Way Around the World 

and rubbish rattled to the floor; and, after a moment of 
silence, the song was resumed, louder than before. Either 
the creatures were clever dodgers or they could not be 
wounded; and there was always the danger that anything 
thrown swiftly might bring down half the roof on our 
heads. 

She-kak! she-kak! she-kak! 

Wherever there are dwellings in British India, there are 
croaking lizards. I have listened to their shriek from Co- 
lombo to Delhi ; I have seen them darting across the car- 
peted floor in the bungalows of commissioners ; I have 
awakened many a time to find one dragging its clammy 
w r ay across my face. But nowhere are they in greater 
numbers or more loud-voiced than in the jungle of the 
Malay Peninsula. There came a day when we were glad 
they had not been driven out — but I will tell of that later. 

Early the next morning we came to a broad pathway 
that led us every half hour through a grinning village, be- 
tween which were many lonely huts. We stopped at all 
of them for water. The natives showed us marked kind- 
ness, often waiting for us with a chettie of water in hand, 
or running out into the road at our shout of " Yee shee- 
dela?" 

This Burmese word for water (yee) gave James a great 
deal of amusement. Ever and again he would pause be- 
fore a hut, to call out in the voice of a court crier : " Hear 
ye! hear ye! hear ye! We're thirsty as Hottentots!" 
Householders young and old understood. At least, they 
fetched us water in abundance. 

The fourth day afoot brought us two misfortunes. The 
rainy season burst upon us in fury not an hour after we 
had spent our last copper for breakfast. Where dinner 



Tramping Through Burma 263 

would come from we had not the least idea ; but we did 
not waste our strength in worry. 

The first shower came suddenly. One sullen roar of 
thunder, the heavens opened, and the water poured. x\fter 
that they came often. At times we found shelter under 
some long-legged hovel. Even when we scrambled up the 
bamboo ladders into the huts, the squatting family showed 
no anger. Often they gave us fruit ; once they forced upon 
us two native cigars. It was these that made James for- 
ever after a firm friend of the Burmese. 

Frequently we plodded on in a blinding down-pour that, in 
the twinkling of an eye, drenched us to the skin. The storm 
lasted only about five minutes. With the last dull growl 
of thunder the sun burst out, hotter than before, sopping 
up the pools in the highway as if with a giant's sponge, and 
drying our dripping garments before we had time to grum- 
ble at the wetting. The gorgeous beauties of the sur- 
roundings gave us so much to look at that the ducking we 
had received was quickly forgotten, and the next down- 
pour took us as completely by surprise as if it were the 
first of the season. 

It was still early in the morning when, down the green- 
framed roadway, came a funeral procession on its way to 
the place where the body was to be burned. There came, 
first of all, dozens of girls dressed as if for a holiday. 
About their necks were garlands of flowers; in their jet- 
black hair, red and white blossoms. Each carried a flat 
basket heaped high with bananas of the brightest yellow, 
with golden mangoes and great plump pineapples, for the 
dead. The girls held the baskets high above their heads, 
swinging their bodies from side to side and tripping lightly 
back and forth across the road, the long line performing 



264 Working My Way Around the World 

a snake-dance as they came. The strange music that rose 
and fell in time with their movements sounded like a song 
of victory; now and again a singer broke out in merry 
laughter. 

The coffin was a wooden box gayly decked with flowers 
and trinkets, and three of the eight men who carried it 
on their shoulders were puffing at long native cigars. Be- 
hind them more men, led by two yellow-robed priests, pat- 
tered through the dust, chattering like school-girls, or now 
and then adding their harsh voices to the singing. 

We reached the village of Moulmein late at night, and 
went home with a Eurasian youth who had invited us to 
sleep on his veranda. There we threw ourselves down on 
the floor, and, drenched and mud-caked as we were, sank 
into corpse-like slumber. 






CHAPTER XXII 

IN THE JUNGLES OF BURMA 

The next morning we went to call on an American mis- 
sionary. He lived in a handsome bungalow set in a wooded 
park on a hill just outside the town. The first persons we 
saw when we reached the place were a native gardener 
clipping away at the shrubbery on the grounds, and another 
servant following two very little girls who drove about 
the house a team of lizards harnessed together with reins 
tied to their hind legs. 

When we told the missionary that we were looking for 
work, he quickly found something to put us at. Among 
other things, I repaired the floor and several windows, and 
made two kitchen benches. James put a new cover on the 
missionary's saddle, cleaned and oiled his fire-arms, put 
new roosts in his hen-house, and set his lumber-room in 
order. 

We found some work in the city also, and, with some four 
dollars in silver and copper, set off once more. A jungle 
trail led eastward through a dark forest. We walked as 
fast as we could, for the hour was late and the next village 
was fully fifteen miles distant. Not a hut or a human 
being did we pass on the journey; only the path showed 
that someone had been there before us. 

Black night had fallen when we reached Kawkeriek. 
The town was only a collection of those same one-story 
bamboo huts standing in uneven rows in the square clear- 

265 



266 Working My Way Around the World 

ing which its inhabitants had won after a hard fight with 
the wilderness. 

We had heard that a commissioner lived at Kawkeriek. 
We wandered among the huts, asking passers-by to direct 
us to his bungalow. The few whom we came upon in the 
darkness listened with trembling limbs to our question, 
grunted something that we could n't understand, and hurried 
noiselessly away. 

The hour was late when we came upon one who must 
have been made of bolder stuff than his fellow townsmen, 
for he agreed to guide us. Beyond the last row of huts, 
he plunged into a pathway that led into the woods, and, 
climbing a low hill, stopped before a bungalow almost hid- 
den in the trees. W r e turned to thank him, but found that 
he had slipped silently away. 

The commissioner was reading in his study. To our 
surprise, he was a brown man — a Burman from " over 
Mandalay way." He said he had not dined, and for that 
we were thankful; for to have missed the dinner that he 
invited us to share would have been a misfortune indeed. 

W r e watched the commissioner with interest ; for it is not 
often that England honors a brown man by making him a 
ruler over one of her districts. In appearance he was like 
other Burmans of the wealthier class. He wore the usual 
flowing robe, though his legs were dressed and his feet were 
shod. His long, thick black hair was caught up at the back 
of his head in a graceful knot. But in manners and speech 
he was like an educated European. He spoke English so 
well that if we had entered the bungalow blindfolded we 
should never have suspected that his skin was brown. We 
were much surprised to learn that he was still a bachelor; 
for people of Asia usually marry when they are very young. 






In the Jungles of Burma 



267 



When we gave expression to our astonishment, he answered : 
" I have been too busy in my short life to give attention to 
such matters." 

There was a dak bungalow in Kawkeriek. The commis- 
sioner's servant showed us the way, prepared our bath, and 
arranged the sleeping- 
rooms for us. In the 
morning we took break- 
fast with the governor. 
Later that morning he 
called together his coun- 
cil of eight wise men for 
no other purpose than to 
talk over with them our 
plans for traveling to 
Siam on foot. Toward 
noon they called us in to 
tell us what they thought 
about it. One speaker 
said that the country east 
of the city was a trackless 
jungle overrun with sav- 
ages, poisonous snakes, 
and man-eating tigers. 
Even the people of Kaw- ■ - * 

keriek dared not go far The chi , ef of ? jungle ; il ! ag . e agrees to 

« guide us for one days journey 

into it. However, if we 

were determined to risk our lives and go, there was out- 
side the door a " wild man," chief of a jungle village, 
who was going our way, and he would °:uide us for one 
day's journey. 

We answered that we must start immediately. A servant 




268 Working My Way Around the World 

stepped out on to the veranda and summoned the boh, as 
they called the " wild man." He came into the council- 
chamber, a tall, thin, bony, awkward wild man. His skin 
was a leathery brown, his hair short and standing up like 
bristles all over his head. His eyes were small, and moved 
about so restlessly that he made us think of a leopard. His 
cheek-bones were high and his forehead sloped backward 
to his hair. The chewing of betel-nuts had made his teeth 
jet-black. We began to fancy that we had seen him before, 
playing and chattering in the tree-tops. 

His clothes, nevertheless, were brilliant. Around his head 
was wound a strip of pink silk; an embroidered jacket, hav- 
ing no buttons, left his chest bare to the waist-line ; his hips 
and legs w r ere clothed as far as the knees in many yards of 
bright red stuff draped to look like bloomers. Below the 
knees he wore nothing. At his waist was fastened a bag 
for betel-nuts. He carried a leather sack of the shape of a 
saddle-bag, and — an umbrella. 

He spoke a Burmese so different from that used by the 
commissioner and his council that their words had to be 
translated for him by another native. We knew that they 
were telling him that he was to be our guide through the 
jungle. He listened carefully, and gave a grunt now and 
then to show that he understood, bow T ing so low each time 
he spoke that his head all but touched his knees. From time 
to time, when he wished to show unusual politeness, he sat 
down on his heels. When he left, he backed toward the 
door, bowing almost to the floor with every step, and for- 
getting his leather sack until he was called back by a member 
of the council. 

The brilliant clothes that this jungle chieftain wore while 
calling on the governor were not his traveling costume, of 



i 



In the Jungles of Burma 269 

course. As soon as we were outside the city, he signed to 
us to wait, and stepped inside a hut. When he came out 
again we hardly knew him. His fine clothes had been 
packed away in his sack. The broad strap of this sack w r as 
his only covering save a strip of cotton which he wore 
about his hips. 

He turned at once into the jungle, moving with little 
mincing steps, while we stumbled along awkwardly over the 
uneven ground. The path was so narrow that the out- 
stretching branches whipped us in the faces. It was over- 
grown with tough creepers that entangled our feet. None 
but a human being who had lived in the jungle all his life 
could have followed that wandering, often hidden path 
through the thick maze of vegetation. Had we been alone 
w r e should certainly have lost it. Flocks of brilliantly col- 
ored birds flew away before us, screaming shrilly ; now and 
then we heard a sudden crashing in the underbrush as some 
wild animal fled from our path. 

Our guide was the most silent of creatures. Never once 
during the day did a sound escape him. Where the path 
widened a bit, he raised his umbrella and trotted steadily 
forward. Even swollen streams did not stop him — he 
hardly seemed to notice them. With never a pause, he 
splashed through the first as if there were nothing in his 
way, and galloped carelessly on along the branch-choked 
path. W T e hallooed to him as we sat down to pull off our 
shoes. If we let him get out of our sight we should be 
hopelessly lost in the jungle. He halted a moment, but set 
off again before we had waded ashore. We shouted once 
more, and he turned to stare open-mouthed while we put on 
our shoes. He could not understand why we strange crea- 
tures should wear garments on our feet, or why we should 



270 Working My Way Around the World 

stop to put them on when there were other streams to wade 
through. When we had overtaken him, he made signs to 
show us that we should do better to toss aside the foolish 
leather things that made it necessary for us to stop so often. 
He could not understand that a mile over sharp stones and 
jagged roots would have left us crippled. 

As we neared the mountains we came across stream after 
stream, rushing past with increased swiftness. By the time 
we ha'd waded through thirty-six of these we grew tired of 
halting every hundred yards to pull off our shoes and shout 
after the boh, who always forgot to wait for us. 

When we reached the next stream, James tried crossing it 
on a few stepping-stones without removing his shoes. But 
he slipped, lost his balance, and sprawded headlong into the 
water. I followed more carefully, and reached the other 
bank without falling. After that we waded through streams 
that for the most part were over knee-deep, and marched on 
with the water gushing from our shoe-tops. It mattered 
little in the end, for a sudden storm burst upon us. 

He who has never bowed his back to a tropical storm at 
the height of the rainy season cannot know how violent they 
are. With a roar like the explosion of a powder-mill, a 
furious clap of thunder broke above us ; then another and 
another, in quick deafening blasts. Flaming flashes of 
lightning continuously chased each other across the heavens, 
blinding us with their sudden glare. W T e half expected to 
see the mass of plant life about us burst into flame. 

In the falling sheets of water we plunged on; the biggest 
trees could not have sheltered us from it. The boh had 
raised his umbrella. It kept the storm from pounding him, 
but could not save him a drenching. W 7 hat cared he, dressed 
only in a cloth the size of a handkerchief? The water ran 



In the Jungles of Burma 271 

in little rivers down his naked shoulders and along the hol- 
lows between his outstanding ribs. Between the crashes of 
thunder the thud, thud of the storm drowned all other 
sounds. Only by speaking into my companion's ear as into 
a trumpet, and shouting at the top of my lungs, could I make 
him hear me. 

The storm died down slowly at first, then suddenly, and 
all seemed quiet except our voices, which continued to be 
shrill and loud. Quickly the sun burst forth again, to blaze 
fiercely upon us — though not for long. All that day the 
storms broke upon us one after another so rapidly that we 
had no idea of their number. More often than not, they 
caught us climbing a wall-like mountain-side by a narrow, 
clay-bottomed path down which an ever-increasing brook 
poured, washing us off our feet while we clutched at over- 
hanging bushes. 

The boh led us on by zigzag routes over two mountain 
ranges before the day was done. At sunset we were climb- 
ing down into another valley, when we came suddenly upon 
a tiny clearing in the jungle, and a tinier village. " Then- 
ganyenam," the natives called it. There were four bamboo 
huts and a dak bungalow, housing thirty-one " wild men " 
and one tame one. It was easy to see how many there were, 
for the natives poured forth from their hovels to meet us 
before we had crossed five yards of the clearing. 

At their head trotted the tamed human being. Among 
all the shrieking, staring band of men, women, and children, 
there was no other that wore clothing. He was a babu, the 
" manager " of the public rest house. With a low bow, he 
offered us welcome, turned to wave back the gazing crowd, 
and led the way to the dak bungalow. 

" Look here, babu,'' I began, as we sank down into wicker 



272 Working My Way Around the World 

chairs on the veranda. '' This is a splendid little surprise 
to find a dak rest bungalow and a man who speaks English 
here in the jungle. But we 're no millionaires, and the gov- 
ernment fee is two rupees, eh? Too strong for us. Can't 
you get us a cheaper lodging in one of the huts? " 

" The government," returned the babu, pronouncing his 
words very carefully, " the government have made the dak 
bungalow for Europeans. Why, you may not ask me. In 
two years and nine days that I am living in Thenganyenam 
there are come two white men, and one have only rested 
and not sleep. But because the dak bungalow is make, all 
sahibs coming in Thenganyenam must stop in it. When I 
have see you coming by the foot and not by the horses I 
must know that you have not plenty money. Every day we 
are not everybody rich. How T strong you have the legs to 
come from Kawkeriek by the feet. The tw T o rupees you 
must not pay. If you can give some little to the cook, that 
he make you a supper — " 

" That 's the word," burst out James. " Of course we 
pay for our chow. Where 's the chowkee ? Tell him to 
get busy." 

" But," apologized the babu, " this is a very jungly place 
and we have not proper food for Europeans." 

" Great dingoes ! " shrieked the Australian. " European 
food? We have n't had anything to eat for a day! Bring 
a pan of rice, or a raw turnip, or a fried snake — anything. 
Ring up the chowkee." 

" The other day," said the babu dreamily, " there was a 
chicken in Thenganyenam ; I shall send the cook to hunt 
him." 

A few minutes later we saw the population of Thengan- 
yenam chasing the lone fowl. He was finally run to earth 



In the Jungles of Burma 273 

with a great hubbub, and put to death while the crowd 
looked on. After that all was quiet for so long a time that 
we became uneasy, wondering if some one else was enjoy- 
ing our dinner. Finally, when our overgrown hunger had 
become very painful indeed, the chicken appeared before us 
as tongue-scorching curry in a generous setting of hard- 
boiled rice. 

Meanwhile we had pulled off our water-soaked rags, 
rubbed down with a strip of canvas, and put on our extra 
garments. The change was most agreeable. It was not 
until then that we knew how useful those squares of oil- 
cloth were. They had kept our baggage dry. Supper over, 
we stretched out on the canvas cots and tried to sleep. 

The swamps and streams through which we had plunged 
that day had swarmed with leeches, commonly called blood- 
suckers. One of these had fastened itself in a vein of my 
right ankle. I could not pull it out. A tiny stream of 
blood trickled along my toes. When I awoke in the morn- 
ing I seemed to be fastened to the cot. The blood, oozing 
out during the night, had grown hard, gluing my right leg 
to the canvas. 

Before I had dressed, the Hindu cook and care-taker 
wandered into the room, and, catching sight of the long red 
stain, gave one shriek and tumbled out on to the veranda. 
James, who was sleeping in a room next to mine, was awak- 
ened by the scream, and, hearing the Hindustanee word for 
" blood," sprang to his feet in the belief that I had been 
murdered while he slept. I was explaining the matter to 
him when the cook, looking very frightened, returned with 
the book in which we had written our names the night 
before. Waving his arm now at the book, now at the cot, 
he danced about us, screaming excitedly. We could not 



274 Working My Way Around the World 

understand his chatter, so we stepped past him out to the 
veranda. The " manager " was just coming up the steps. 

"Here, babu," demanded James, "what's wrong with 
our friend from the kitchen? " 

The Hindu turned to the manager, talking so rapidly that 
he almost choked over his words. Tears were streaming 
down his yellow-brown cheeks. 

" He says," cried the babu, when the cook became silent 
at last, " in the charpoy is much blood. Have you become 
wounded ? " 

"It was only a blood-sucker," I explained; "but what 
does he say about the book? " 

" The cook asks that you will write all the story of the 
blood in it, very careful." 

" What nonsense ! " I answered, when James had stopped 
laughing. " I '11 pay for the damage to the charpoy." 

" Oh ! It is no dam-mage," protested the babu, " no 
dam-mage at all. He is not ask for pay. But when the 
inspector is coming and seeing the much blood in the char- 
poy, he is thinking the cook have kill a man who have sleep 
here, and he is taking him to Kawkeriek and making him 
shot. Very bad. So cook cry. Please, sir, write you the 
story in the register book." 

I sat down at the veranda table and wrote a long story 
for the visiting inspector. Only when I had filled the page 
below our names, and half the next one, was the Hindu 
cook satisfied. He then carried the book away for safe 
keeping. 

We wrapped our dry garments in the oil-cloth once more, 
and put on the rags and tatters we had stretched along the 
ceiling the evening before. They were still clammy wet. 
As for our shoes, we almost gave up the hope of getting into 



In the Jungles of Burma 275 

them. When we managed to pull them on at last we could 
hardly walk. Our feet were blistered and swollen to the 
ankles, the shoes wrinkled and shrunken until the leather 
was as hard and unbendable as sheet-iron. .However, we 
hobbled down the veranda steps and away. For the first 
hour we walked as if we were crossing a field of hot coals. 
Once James slipped and stumbled over the stones like a man 
learning to skate. We suffered at every step of our journey 
from Thenganyenam to Si.am. 



CHAPTER XXIII 

IN SIAM 

The distance to the free state was not great. When we 
reached the boundary we came upon a camp of native sol- 
diers. Here we stopped, as was our duty before crossing 
into Siam. The soldiers were simple, good-hearted fellows 
who showed their astonishment and their sorrow at the 
condition of our feet through the language of signs, and did 
their best to prepare us a good dinner from the rice and 
jungle vegetables they had. It was fortunate for us that 
they were so generous, for there were no stores in the jungle 
land. 

The native lieutenant showed a strong curiosity to know 
what had brought us so far into the wilds. We tried to 
motion out our reasons for coming, but failed to make him 
understand. Finally he ordered a soldier to guide us to 
the first Siamese village, where he was to explain our pres- 
ence to the head man. 

When the sun had begun to set and the latest storm had 
ceased, we left the camp and Burma behind. The river that 
marked the boundary between the two countries was not 
very wide and only waist-deep. We waded across it easily, 
and climbed the sandy eastern bank — in Siam at last. 

We knew that the first village was no great distance off, 
so we strolled easily on through the jungle, pausing to rest 
in shady thickets so often that the native soldier left us and 
went on alone. Two hours later we met him on his home- 
ward journey. He paused to tell us by signs that he had 

276 



In Siam 



277 




delivered his message and that the village was waiting to 
receive us. 

The day was not yet done when we came in sight of the 
first clearing in Siam. We were met at the edge of the 
jungle by a Siamese with 
ape-like countenance, who 
led us to the hut of the 
village head man. 

Picture to yourself a 
very fat, important-look- 
ing brown man, with a 
face like an Alaskan to- 
tem-pole and the general 
appearance of a wild man 
in a circus, a skin the 
color of a door-mat that 
has been in use for many 
years, dressed in a cast- 
off dish-cloth, and you 
have an exact image of 
the ruler of this Siamese 
village. He received us in a misshapen bamboo shack, sit- 
ting with folded legs on a grass mat in the middle of the 
floor. Around the walls squatted several of his chief men, 
dressed like himself. Through the network partition that 
separated the city hall from the family chamber peered a 
leathery-skinned woman and a troop of dusky children. 

If we had waited for an invitation to be seated we might 
have remained standing all night. These Siamese did not 
appear at all friendly toward us. We made ourselves com- 
fortable on the floor, with our backs to the wall. For more 
than an hour the head man and his advisers sat motionless, 



A freight carrier crossing the stream 
that separates Burma from Siam 



278 Working My Way Around the World 

staring fixedly at us, and mumbling in a low tone without 
once turning their heads toward those to whom they were 
speaking. 

The sun sank into the jungle, and swift darkness fell. 
The leathery-skinned woman drifted into the room and set 
on the floor an oil torch that gave a dim, flickering light. I 
had learned a few Siamese words from the babu of Then- 
ganyenam. When the talking ceased for a moment, I put 
these words in use by calling for food. The head man 
growled, and the woman floated in once more and placed 
at our feet a small wash-tub of boiled rice. 

But I was tired of eating rice. I dragged out my note- 
book and again ran my eyes dow r n the list of Siamese words. 
I had failed to w 7 rite down the words for chicken or curry. 
The only word that appeared to be of any value at the time 
was " sugar." Sugar would make my rice less tasteless. 
I shouted the word at the head man. He stared open- 
mouthed until I had repeated it several times. 

" Sugar? " he echoed, showing great astonishment. 

" Yes, sugar," I cried, sprinkling an imaginary handful 
over the rice. 

The law-makers gazed at each other with wondering 
eyes, and the word passed from mouth to mouth : 
" Sugar! " 

" Sure, sugar ! " cried James, taking up the refrain. 

A man rose slowly to his feet, marched across to us, and 
squatted before the dish. 

"Sugar?" he inquired, peering into our faces. "No, 
no!" 

He took a pinch of the food between his fingers, put it 
into his mouth, and munched it slowly as if he were trying 






_ 



In Siam 279 

to examine the taste. Then he shook his head forcefully 
and spat the mouthful out on the floor. 

" No ; no sugar, no ! " he cried. 

" Of course there 's no sugar ! " shouted Tames. ; ' That 's 




My companion, Gerald James of Perth, Australia, crossing the boun- 
dary line between Burma and Siam 

why we 're making a holler. Sugar, you thick-headed 
mummy/' James thought it was not necessary to be polite, 
since they could n't understand him. 

The official taster w T ent back to his place ; a silence fell 
over the company. We continued to shout. Suddenly a 
light of understanding brightened the face of the head man. 
Could it be because we wanted sugar that we were raising 
such a hubub, not because we had fancied some had been 
accidentally spilled on our supper? He called to the woman. 
When she appeared with a joint of bamboo filled with 
muddy brown sugar, the council men rose gravely and 
grouped themselves about us. I sprinkled half the sugar 
on the rice, stirred it in, and began to eat. 



28o Working My Way Around the World 

At the first mouthful such a roar of laughter went up 
from the group that I choked in astonishment. Whoever 
would have guessed that these gloomy-faced great ones 
could laugh? The chief fell to shaking as with a fit; his 
advisers doubled up with laughter. They shrieked until 
they were heard in the neighboring huts. Wild-eyed Siam- 
ese tumbled into the shack. Within two minutes half the 
village had flocked into the room to see those strange beings 
who ate sugar with their rice. 

The head man stopped laughing, then became stern and 
drove all but the high and mighty among his people forth 
into the night. Among those who stayed was a baba. He 
was a Siamese youth who had been educated in Rangoon. 
To satisfy the head man he questioned us as to our plans, 
and later told the chief and his followers what we had re- 
plied. The company then talked it over for about two hours. 
At the end of that time they told us what they thought of the 
trip we had planned. They said the jungle to the eastward 
was so wild, entangled with undergrowth, and pathless that 
even the natives did not try to get through it. Certainly 
white men would not be able to make their way through 
such a place. We must not try it. There was in the vil- 
lage a squad of soldiers who w T ere going to Rehang in a 
week or ten days — we could travel with them. Until then 
we must stay in the village. 

James and I said we certainly could not wait for so long 
a time. The head man replied that we should stay, whether 
we liked it or not. As it was late at night, we pretended 
that we were willing to do as they said, and told them we 
were sleepy. The village chief lighted us into one of the 
small rooms of his palace, and left us to sleep on the bamboo 
floor. 



In Siam 281 

We fell asleep at once. Early the next morning, long 
before the sun was up, we awoke, grasped our oil-cloth bag- 
gage, and tried to get away before anyone saw us. Softly 
we entered the council-chamber. But the chief was already 
astir. We hurried toward the door, thinking that he would 
try to stop us. All he did was to shout at us as we stepped 
out into the dripping dawn. 

At the eastern end of the town began a faint path; but it 
soon faded away, and we pushed and tore our way through 
the jungle, guided only by our pocket compass. The war- 
like vegetation battled against us, tore our rags to bits, and 
cut and gashed us from head to ankles. The perspiration 
ran in stinging streams along our bleeding skins and dripped 
from our faces. Though we fought the undergrowth tooth 
and nail, we did not cover two miles an hour. 

The sun was high when we reached a spot showing that 
someone had passed that way before. It was a clearing not 
more than six feet square, in the center of which was a slimy 
pool, with a few joints of bamboo that looked as if they had 
been cut only a short time. With these we drank our fill 
of the lukewarm water, and then threw ourselves down in 
the shade. 

Suddenly we heard human voices. We sprang to our 
feet, half expecting to be attacked by murderous savages. 
Then our fright left us as there burst into the clearing a 
squad of little brown soldiers. 

There were seven in the party, a sergeant and four com- 
mon soldiers armed with muskets, and two coolie carriers, 
each bowed under the weight of two baskets that hung from 
the pole on their shoulders. When they saw us they gasped 
in astonishment. Then they rushed for the bamboo cups 
beside the water-hole, while the servants knelt to set their 



282 Working My Way Around the World 

baskets on the grass. For a time we thought they had been 
sent to bring us back; but when they let us handle their 
weapons we knew that we had nothing to fear. They were 
on their way to Rehang, but why they had left the village 
so much earlier than the time set we could not find out. 

They looked like boys playing war. The sergeant, larger 
than the others, did not come to James's chin — and the 
Australian was not tall. The rest were weak-looking little 
runts. An average American school-boy could have tied 
any one of them into a knot and tossed him aside into the 
jungle. There was nothing war-like in their manners or 
their babyish faces. They were dressed in the regular khaki 
uniform, except that their trousers came only to their knees, 
leaving their scrawny legs bare. From their belts hung 
bayonets ; and around the waist of each was tied a stocking- 
like sack of rice. 

We talked with them some time by signs. I tried to tell 
the sergeant that my own country owned the Philippine 
Islands, which were not far from his country. He thought 
I meant that my country owned Siam. He sneered at me 
most cuttingly. The very idea that the white man had any 
claim on the free country of Siam ! How foolish ! He told 
his soldiers about it. They scoffed at us, and even the car- 
riers grinned scornfully. When they had eaten a jungle 
lunch the soldiers stretched out for their noonday nap, and 
we went on alone. 

It was long hours afterward that we came to a break in 
the jungle. Through the undergrowth we made out two 
miserable huts. W T e dashed eagerly toward them, for we 
had had nothing to eat since the night before and our tramp 
had made us very hungry. 






In Siam . 283 

Two thin brown women, dressed in short skirts and 
broad-brimmed hats made of big leaves, were scratching 
the mud of a tiny garden before the first hut. I called for 
food and shook a handful of coppers in their faces; but, 
although they must have understood us, they would not 
answer. We danced excitedly about them, shrieking all the 
Siamese names for food that we knew. Still they stared 
with half-open mouths, showing uneven rows of black 
teeth. We had expected this. Even far back in Moul- 
mein, we had been warned that the jungle folk of Siam 
would not sell food to travelers. Far off in this howling 
wilderness among the mountains, the people had never used 
money and did not know that our coins had any value. 

We went on, and just at sunset burst into the scattered 
village of Banpawa. About forty howling storms had 
poured upon us during the day, and we had waded through 
an even greater number of streams. My jacket was torn to 
ribbons ; my back and shoulders were painfully sunburned ; 
in a struggle with a stubborn thicket I had lost a leg of my 
trousers. And the Australian looked about as pretty as I. 

Near the center of the village was a large roof of grass 
upheld by slender bamboo poles. Under it were huddled 
about twenty freight-carriers, surrounded by bales and bun- 
dles. They were the human freight trains of the Siamese 
jungle — cross, silent fellows, who, though they stared open- 
mouthed when we appeared, would not have anything to 
say to us. 

They were strong-looking, with great knots of muscles 
standing out on their glistening brown bodies. A small rag 
was their only clothing. Above it the skin was thickly tat- 
tooed to the neck with strange figures of beasts. Among 



284 Working My Way Around the World 

these the form of a fat pig seemed to be the favorite. Be- 
low the hip-cloth the figures were blue, even more closely 
crowded together, but stopping short at the knees. 

We tried to buy food from our sulky companions. They 
growled for answer. Like the soldiers, each of them wore 
at his waist a bag of rice. A few were preparing supper 
over bonfires at the edge of the shelter; but not a grain of 
rice would they sell. A raging storm broke while we were 
wandering from one to another offering them our money. 
When the storm began to die down, we hobbled out into the 
night to try to buy from the villagers. 

There were about twenty huts in the clearing. We 
climbed into one after another of them, in spite of our 
aching legs. But it was useless : nobody would sell. Too 
hungry to care what happened to us, we climbed boldly into 
the last hut, and caught up a kettle, intending to cook our 
own supper. 

The householder shrieked wildly, and, before we had 
kindled a fire, a mob of his fellow townsmen swarmed into 
the shack and fell upon us. They were not the fiercest of 
fighters — we shook and kicked them off like puppies. But 
when the last one had tumbled down the ladder we saw that 
they had carried off every pot, pan, and eatable about the 
place. Besides the bare walls there remained only a naked 
brown baby, that rolled about the floor, howling uproar- 
iously. 

The people of the village were screaming around the 
shanty in a way that made us glad we had a prisoner. 
James sat down, gazed sadly at the wailing infant, and 
shook his head. 

" No good," he sighed. " Not fat enough. Anyway, 
there 's no kettle to cook it in. Let 's set out of this." 



In Siam 28 c 

We turned toward the door. A man was peering over 
the edge of the veranda. By the silken band around his 
brow we knew that he was a Burman and also that he spoke 
Hindustanee. We understood enough of his excited chatter 
to know that he had come to lead us to a place where food 
was sold. As we reached the ground the crowd parted to let 
us pass ; but the furious natives danced about us, screaming 
and shaking sticks and clubs in our faces. A few steps 
from the hut one bold spirit struck me a resounding whack 
on the back of the head. It was a heavy blow, but the 
weapon was a hollow bamboo stick and caused no damage. 
When I turned to fall upon my assailant the whole crowd 
took to their heels and fled into the night. 

" All I 've got to say," panted James, as we hurried on 
after our guide, " is, I 'm glad that 's not a crowd of Irish- 
men. Where would the pioneer beach-combers of the Ma- 
lay Peninsula be now if that collection of dish-rags knew 
how to scrap? " 

The Burman led us through half a mile of mud and brush, 
and a stream that was almost waist-deep, to a hut a long 
distance from Banpawa. He went in with us, and sat down 
to keep us company until our rice and fish had been boiled. 
He was quite clever in understanding the few words and 
the motions we made. Suddenly he began to wish that he 
had a tropical helmet to wear in place of the band around 
his brow. He pointed at the one James wore and held up 
one finger. 

" One rupee! Say yes, sahib? " he coaxed. 

" Can't sell it," growled the Australian. " Think I want 
to get sunstroke? " 

The Burman shrugged his shoulders, then rose and went 
sadly forth into the night. 



286 Working My Way Around the Wo^ld 

We turned in soon after on a sort of platform, with nine 
youngsters who amused themselves by walking and tum- 
bling over our outstretched forms. A lizard chorus sang 
loud and gaily. We slept a little by snatches. 

When daylight came the Burman appeared again. This 
time he pointed at James's helmet and held up two fingers. 
James still refused to sell. 

" Then yours, sahib," begged the fellow in Hindustanee. 
" One rupee! " 

" Only one? " I cried. " Two rupees." 

" One ! " he shrieked. " Two for the sahib's which is 
new. One for yours." 

The Burman gave in at last, however, and, dropping two 
coins in my hand, marched proudly away with my old helmet 
set down over his ears. 

I handed one of the coins to the head of the family, and 
we hit the trail again. Out of sight of the hut, we halted 
to put on the extra suits in our bundles. From the rags 
and tatters of my old suit I made a band to wind around 
my head, after the fashion of Burma. Even with the top 
of my head uncovered to the sun and rain, I did not suffer. 



CHAPTER XXIV 

HUNGRY DAYS 

The territory beyond Banpawa was more savage than any 
we had yet seen. Everywhere the climbing and creeping 
plant life was so thick and interwoven that our feet could 
not reach the ground. Often, when we tried to plunge 
through a thicket, we were caught as if in a net. It was 
impossible to get through, and we crawled out with torn 
garments and bleeding hands and faces to fight our way 
around the spot. We were now in the very heart of the 
mountains. Range after range appeared, covered with un- 
broken jungle. From the top of every mountain there 
spread out before us an endless forest of teak and bamboo 
matted together with the wildest undergrowth. Mountains 
that were just blue wreaths in the morning climbed higher 
and higher into the sky — and beyond them were more 
mountains, all covered with a mass of waving tree-tops. 
Every valley was choked with vegetation. 

Often, while climbing, we lost our footing and went 
plunging headlong through thorn-bristling thickets. There 
were no level spaces. No sooner had we reached the bot- 
tom of a narrow valley than we found ourselves at the base 
of another higher mountain, which we climbed hand over 
hand as a sailor climbs a rope. In our ears sounded the 
continual hum of insects; now and then a snake squirmed 
off through the bushes; more than once we heard the roar 
of some beast. Monkeys swarmed in the thick network of 

287 



288 Working My Way Around the World 

branches overhead, and fled screaming away, as we came 
near, into the dark depths of the forest. 

At every mud-hole we halted to drink; for within us 
burned a thirst such as no man knows who has not suffered 
it in the jungle. Chocolate-colored water we drank, water 
alive with squirming animal life, in pools out of which wrig- 
gled brilliant green snakes. Often I rose to my feet to find 
a blood-sucker clinging to my lower lip. 

As the day grew, a raging hunger fell upon us. In a 
sharp valley we came upon a tree on the trunk of which 
hung a dozen or more jack-fruits within easy reach. We 
grasped one and tried to pull it down. The short, tough 
stem was as stout as a manila rope, and knife we had none. 
We wrapped our arms around the fruit and tugged with the 
strength of despair; we might as well have tried to pull up 
a ship's anchor by hand. We chopped at the stem with 
sharp stones; we hunted up great rocks and attempted to 
split the fruit open on the tree, screaming with rage and 
bruising our fingers. Streams of perspiration raced down 
our sun-scorched skins ; our hunger and thirst grew madden- 
ing; and still nothing came of it. When we finally gave 
up and plunged on, our violent attack on the fruit had 
hardly scratched its stony rind. 

Weary and half starved, matted with mud from crown 
to toe, and bleeding from countless cuts and scratches, we 
were still struggling with the entangling vegetation well on 
in the afternoon, when James, who was ahead of me, uttered 
a shriek of victory. 

"A path! A path!" he cried. "And a telegraph 
wire! " 

Certain that hunger and the sun had 'turned his brain, I 
tore my way through the thicket that separated us. He was 



Hungry Days 289 

not mad. A path there was, narrow and steep ; and over- 
head a sagging telegraph wire, running from tree to tree. 

After following it for about a half-hour we came to 
a little plain crossed by a swift stream, in which swam a 
covey of snow-white ducks. On the western bank stood a 
weather-beaten bungalow. Above it the telegraph wire 
disappeared. We drank from the river until we were 
thirsty no more, and then mounted the narrow steps and 
shouted to attract attention. There was no answer. We 
pushed open the door and entered. The room was about 
eight feet square and entirely unfurnished. In one corner 
hung an unpainted telephone instrument. It was home- 
made and very crude. A spider had spun his web across 
the mouth of the receiver, and there were no signs that any- 
one had ever lived in the hut. 

" There is nothing worth while here," said James. 
" Let 's swim the creek." 

On the opposite bank was a bamboo rest house, the floor 
of which was raised some feet above the damp ground. 
Back of it, among the trees, stood a cluster of seven huts. 
We went to all of them, trying to buy food, but returned to 
the rest house with nothing but the information that the 
village was called Kathai Ywa. Nine freight-carriers had 
arrived. Among them were several we had seen the evening 
before. They had, perhaps, some secret hatred against 
white men; for they not only refused to sell us rice, but 
scowled and snarled when we drew near them. The day 
was not yet done. We should have pushed on had not 
James fallen victim to a burning jungle fever. 

While there was plenty of water at hand, our hunger be- 
came unbearable. For a time we kept ourselves cheerful 
by thinking that perhaps the next carrier who wandered into 



290 Working My Way Around the World 

the place would be more friendly. But each new arrival 
was more stupid and surly than the others. The sun 
touched the western tree-tops. James lay on his back, red- 
eyed with fever. Eat we must, if we were to have strength 
to go on in the morning. I made the round of the huts a 
second time, hoping to bully the inhabitants into selling me 
food. The people rose in a mass and swarmed upon me. 
The men carried long, overgrown knives ; the women, clubs. 
I returned hastily to the rest house. 

The sight of the telephone wire awakened within me the 
senseless notion that I might call for help from some neigh- 
boring village. I left my shoes and trousers in charge of 
the Australian, and dashed through the stream and into 
the government bungalow. At the first call I " got " some- 
one. Who or where he was I could not guess. I bawled 
into the receiver English, French, German, and all the Hin- 
dustanee I could think of. When I paused for breath the 
unknown subscriber had " rung off." I jangled the bell 
and shook and pounded the instrument for five minutes. A 
glassy-eyed lizard ran out along the wire and stared down 
upon me. His mate in the grassy roof above screeched 
mockingly. Then another voice sounded faintly in my ear. 

"Hello! " I shouted. "Who's this? We want to eat. 
D' you speak English? Do sahib hai, Kathai Ywa. Send 
us some — " 

A flood of meaningless jabber interrupted me. I had 
rung up a Burman ; but he was no babu. 

" English ! " I shrieked. " Anyone there that speaks 
English ? We 're sahibs ! Hello ! Hello, I say ! Hello — " 

No answer. Central had cut me off again. I rang the 
bell until my arm was lame, and listened breathlessly. All 
was still. I dropped the receiver and tumbled out of the 



Hungry Days 291 

hut, determined to throttle one of the freight-carriers. In 
the middle of the stream I slipped on a stone and fell on my 
knees, the water up to my arm-pits. The startled ducks ran 
away before me. I snatched up a club, and ran after them 
through the village and back to the creek again. The in- 
habitants ran screaming behind me. I threw the weapon at 
the nearest fowl. It was only a joint of bamboo, and fell 
short. The ducks took to the water. I plunged in after 
them, and once more fell sprawling. 

Before I could scramble to my feet, a shout sounded near 
at hand. I looked up to see the squad of soldiers breaking 
out of the jungle. They halted before the government 
bungalow, and watched me with deep-set grins as I came 
toward them. The sergeant, understanding the motions I 
made, offered us places around the common rice heap. I 
returned to the rest house for my garments. The villagers 
were driving their panting ducks homeward. The Aus- 
tralian struggled to his feet and waded the stream once 
more, joining the soldiers on the veranda of the govern- 
ment bungalow. Their porters brought huge wet leaves to 
protect the floor, and built a fire within. Half an hour 
later the troopers rose to their feet, shouting, " Kin-kow ! 
Kin-kow! " (" Eat! ") We followed them into the smoke- 
choked building. In a civilized land I would not have tasted 
such fare as was spread out on that banana leaf in the center 
of the floor, to win a wager. At that moment it seemed 
food fit for a king. 

We slept with the soldiers in the telephone bungalow. 
James's fever burned itself out, and he awoke with the 
dawn, ready to push on. For the first few miles we fol- 
lowed a path below the telephone wire. In stumbling over 
the uneven ground my shoe-laces broke again and again. 



292 Working My Way Around the World 




The sort of jungle through which we cut our way for three weeks. 
Gerald James, my Australian companion, in the foreground 

Well on in the morning I halted to replace them with stout 
vines. The Australian went on ahead. Before I had over- 
taken him the path divided into two paths, and the wire 
disappeared in the forest between the two trails. I hallooed 
to my companion; but the rain was coming down in tor- 
rents, and the voice does not carry far in the jungle. I 






Hungry Days 293 

struck into one of the paths; but in less than an hour it 
faded and was lost. I found myself alone in a trackless 
wilderness. 

Here was a misfortune indeed. The Australian had car- 
ried off the compass ; our money was in my bundle. What 
chance was there of finding each other again in hundreds 
of miles of untraveled wilds? 

I set a course by the sun, and for three hours fought my 
way up the wall-like face of a mountain. To crash and 
roll down the opposite slope took me less than a third of 
that time. In the valley, tucked away under soaring teak 
trees, was a lonely little hut. A black-toothed woman in a 
short skirt squatted in the shade under the cabin, pounding 
rice in a hollowed log. The jungle was humming its 
sleepy tune. I climbed to the veranda and lay down, cer- 
tain that I had seen the last of James, the Australian. 
Under the hut sounded the thump, thump, thump of the 
pestle. 

But it was not by loafing in the shade that I should beat 
my way through to civilization. I soon rose to my feet and 
arranged the things in my bundle again. If I could only 
hire a guide. Hark! The sound of a human voice came 
faintly to my ear. No doubt the owner of the hut was re- 
turning from a morning hunting trip. I listened attentively. 
Then off to the right in the jungle rang out a familiar song: 

" Oh, I long to see my dear old home again, 
And the cottage in the little winding lane. 
You can hear the birds a-singing, 
And pluck the roses blooming; 
Oh, I long to see my dear old home again ! " 

It was the Australian's favorite ballad. I shouted at the 
top of my lungs, and, springing to the ground, with one leap 



294 Working My Way Around the World 

crashed into the jungle. A thicket caught me in its tough 
grasp. I tore savagely at the entangling branches. The 
voice of the Australian rang out once more : 

" Oh, why did I leave my little back room, out in Bloomsburee ? 
Where I could live on a quid a week in such luxuree — " 

He was farther away now. I snatched myself loose and 
plunged on after him, leaving a sleeve of my jacket in the 
thicket. 

" Hello, James ! Hello ! " I bellowed. 

He was singing so loudly that the sound of his own voice 
filled his ears. I opened my mouth to shout again, and fell 
through a bush into a clearly marked path. Above it sagged 
the telephone wire, and just in sight through the overhang- 
ing branches plodded the Australian. 

" Goodness, but you 're slow," he laughed, when I had 
overtaken him. 

" When 'd you find the path ? " I demanded. 

"Haven't lost it," he answered. "Why? Did you?" 

" Have n't seen it for five hours," I replied. 

" Great dingoes ! " he gasped. " Thought you were close 
behind, or I 'd have felt mighty little like singing." 

We had no difficulty in keeping to the path for the rest 
of the day, and passed several freight-carriers traveling 
westward. With never a hut on the way, we went hungry. 
Yet, had we but known it, there was food all about us. 
What a helpless being is civilized man without the tools of 
civilization. 

Faint from hunger, we had halted at the edge of a moun- 
tain stream well on in the afternoon, when we were over- 
taken by the little brown soldiers. They had packed away 
their uniforms and wore only loin-cloths and caps. 






Hungry Days 295 

"Kin-kow? Kin-kow?" (" Are you hungry? ") asked 
the sergeant, placing his hand on his stomach. 

sWe nodded sadly. He chuckled to himself, and waved 
his arms about him as if to say there was food all about us. 
We shrugged our shoulders unbelievingly. He laughed 
gleefully, and turned to say something to his men. Two of 
the soldiers picked up clubs, and, returning along the path 
to a half -rotten log, began to move back and forth on both 
sides of it, striking it sharp blows here and there. They 
came back with a half-dozen lizards — those great, green 
reptiles that sing their shc-kak! all night long in the grassy 
roofs of the Indian bungalows. 

Meanwhile two others of the company were kneeling at 
the edge of a mud-hole. From time to time they plunged 
their bare arms into it, drawing out frogs and dropping 
them, still alive, into a hollow bamboo stick. The sergeant 
took his long, heavy knife, or dah, and cut down a small 
tree at the edge of the jungle. One servant dug some red- 
dish-brown roots on the bank of the stream, while the other 
started a fire by rubbing two sticks together. 

In a few minutes all were gathered beside us. The liz- 
ards were skinned, cut up with lumps of red curry in an iron 
pot, and set to boiling. A servant drew out the frogs, one 
by one, struck them on the head with a stick, and tossed 
them to his companion. The latter rolled them up inside 
mud balls and threw them into the fire. The sergeant split 
open his tree, pulled out a soft spongy stuff from the center 
of it, cut it into slices, toasted them on the point of his dah, 
and tossed them on to a large leaf spread out at our feet. 
The reddish roots were beaten to a pulp on a rock and 
sprinkled over the toasted slices. Rice was boiled. 

The soldiers, grinning at one another, began saying, 



296 Working My Way Around the World 

"Kin-kow? Kin-kow?" and the meal began. Before it 
was finished we thought better of both the jungle and its 
people. Taken from their shell of mud, the frogs were 
found to be baked in round balls and tasted like fried fish. 
The toasted pith from the tree tasted like pickled beets. 
Best of all was the lizard curry. James and I ate more than 
our share, and we told each other that we wished the pair 
sent to pound the old tree-trunk had remained longer at 
their task. 

We went on with the soldiers, halting after dark at the 
bank of the largest stream we had yet faced. There was no 
village here, but the government had built a rest house for 
soldiers on the bank. In this we spent the night with the 
troopers, after eating a frog-and-lizard supper. 

Beyond there were not so many mountains and the path 
was well marked ; but the river beside which we had left the 
soldiers was deep and swift, and wound back and forth, 
crossing our route again and again. In the first few morn- 
ing hours we swam it no less than fourteen times. It was 
the ninth crossing that gave us the most trouble. Reaching 
the narrow, sandy bank a bit before my companion, I pulled 
off my clothes, tied the bundle to my head, and plunged in. 
James began to disrobe as I reached the other shore. With- 
out removing his ragged shirt or his helmet, he fastened on 
his bundle as I had done, and struck out. 

Being an excellent swimmer, he glided along easily, with 
long, swift strokes. Unfortunately, he did not take care to 
keep his head pointed up-stream. The powerful current 
caught him suddenly and dragged him under. He righted 
himself quickly, but in that short struggle lost both his bun- 
dle and his helmet. He tried to save them, but caught only 
his helmet. His bundle raced down-stream. I sprang to 






Hungry Days 297 

my feet and dashed along the sandy shore after it. But the 
stream was far swifter than I. The tangled undergrowth 
brought me to a sudden halt, and the Australian^ posses- 
sions were swallowed up in the jungle. 

I returned to find him sitting unhappily on the bank. 




W - 



Myself after four days in the jungle, and the Siamese soldiers who 
invited us to eat a frog and lizard supper 

With the bundle had gone his shoes, trousers, jacket, the 
odds and ends he had picked up on his travels, his military 
and citizenship papers, and the pocket compass ; in short, 
everything he owned except a helmet and a tattered shirt. 

But James was not a man to be long discouraged by little 
things. He tied the shirt about his loins and we went on. 
As he had nothing to carry, he marched more easily and 
crossed the streams with far less difficulty than I. But in 



298 Working My Way Around the World 

less than an hour his shoulders, back, and legs were painted 
a fiery red by the unmerciful sun ; and the stones and jagged 
brambles tore and bruised his feet until he left a blood-stain 
at every step. 

We were again overtaken by the soldiers about noonday, 
and halted for another jungle meal. Off once more, we 
pushed ahead, but found it wise to wait for the troopers to 
lead the way; for the route was beset by unexpected pit- 
falls — as once when, in fighting our way along the bank of 
the river, we crashed headlong through the bushes into a 
dry, stony bed of a branch river fifteen feet below. This 
accident left little of my clothing, and made the Australian 
look worse than before. 

So we waited for the soldiers, . and followed them along 
a wider path. The higher mountain ranges fell away; but 
the foot-hills were very steep, and the slopes were often 
bare and covered with deep mud. At the top of such a hill 
we overtook a troop of horsemen returning from some vil- 
lage off to the southwest. Burdened with huge pack- 
saddles, the horses began the dangerous downward climb 
unwillingly. Suddenly three of them lost their footing, sat 
down on their haunches, and rolled over and over, their 
packs flying in every direction. James laughed loudly and 
slapped me on the back. The blow made me lose my bal- 
ance. My feet shot from under me, and slipping, sliding, 
rolling, clutching in vain for something to hold to, I pitched 
down the five-hundred-yard slope and splashed head-first 
into a muddy stream at the bottom several seconds before 
the horses got there. 

Another mile left me bare-footed and nearly as naked as 
my companion. Now and again , we overtook a band of 






Hungry Days 299 

freight-carriers; one a young Buddhist priest in tattered 
yellow, attended by two servants. We had seen him some- 
where a day or two before, and remembered him not only 
by his dress, but on account of the bold and impudent expres- 
sion of his face. He joined our party without being invited, 
and tramped along with us, puffing at a long saybully, and 
chattering loudly and continuously. The soldiers roared 
with laughter at everything he said, and winked at us as if 
they thought we could understand his remarks. We were 
more sorry than ever that we did not understand the Siam- 
ese tongue. 

James w r as complaining that he could not go on another 
yard, when we came most unexpectedly to the edge of the 
jungle. Before us stretched a vast rice-field, deeply flooded. 
The soldiers led the way along the tops of the ridges toward 
a thick wood two miles away. At least a hundred curs 
began howling as we drew near, and as many chattering 
brown people swarmed about us when we stopped to rest in 
a large, deeply shaded village at the edge of a river fully a 
mile wide. It could be no other than the Menam — the 
" great river " of Siam. Along the low eastern bank 
stretched a real city with white two-story buildings, before 
which were anchored large native boats. It was Rehang. 
The soldiers told us so with shouts of joy, and ran away to 
put on their uniforms. 

We threw off what was left of our garments, and plunged 
into the stream to wash off the blood and grime of the 
jungle. When we had finished, the soldiers were gone. 
We asked the villagers to set us across the river. They 
refused. We pushed out one of a dozen dugout logs drawn 
up along the shore, and, the village swarmed down upon us 



300 Working My Way Around the World 

in a great landslide of men, women, children, and yellow 
curs. Catching up two paddles, we beat them off. In two 
minutes we were alone. 

We pushed the dugout into the stream, and were climb- 
ing in when two ugly, wrinkled brown women ran down the 
bank and offered to ferry us across. They pointed the craft 
up-stream and fell to paddling. They were expert water 
dogs, and crossed the swift stream without accident, land- 
ing us at a crazy wooden wharf in the center of the town. 

On nearer sight Rehang was disappointing. The white 
two-story buildings were poor, rickety things. The roads 
between were not much better paved than the jungle paths, 
and deeper in mud. There was no health department, it 
seemed, for here and there a dead dog or cat had been tossed 
out to be trampled underfoot. There were great crowds of 
people, but the passing throng was merely a larger gathering 
of those same strange " wild men "of the jungle villages. 
The fear of being arrested for having no clothes soon left 
us. James in national costume attracted much less attention 
than I in the remnants of jacket and trousers. 

YYe were glad, however, to be in even this tumble-down 
city on the bank of the Menam; at least, it was a market 
town. James dashed into the first store with a whoop of 
delight, and startled the keeper out of his wits by demand- 
ing a whole three cents' worth of cigarettes. He splashed 
on through the muddy streets, blowing great , clouds of 
smoke through his nostrils, and forgetting for a time even 
the smarting of his torn and sun-scorched skin. 

Half the merchants of the town were Chinamen. We 
stopped at a shop kept by three wearers of the pig-tail, and, 
seating ourselves before a bench, called for food. One of 
the keepers, moving as if he disliked having us there, 



Hungry Days 301 

set canned meat before us, and after a long time brought us 
as a can-opener, a hatchet with a blade considerably wider 
than the largest can. 

s When we rose to go, the Chinese demanded ten tecals. 
The market price of the stuff we had eaten was certainly not 
worth one. I gave them two. Three screams split the air, 
and half a dozen Chinamen bounded into the shop and 
danced wildly about us. One caught up the hatchet and 
swung it high above his head. James snatched it from him, 
kicked him across the room, and threw the weapon among 
the heaped-up wares. We fought our way to the street. 
The keeper nearest us gave one loud bellow that w T as an- 
swered from every side. Chinamen stumbled out through 
every open doorway, out of every hole in the surrounding 
shop walls ; they sprang up from under the buildings, 
dropped from the low roofs, swarmed out of the alley-ways, 
for all the world like rats, screaming, yelping, snarling, 
clawing the air as they ran, their pig-tails streaming behind 
them. In the twinkling of an eye the mob at our heels had 
increased to a hundred or more. We refused to disgrace 
ourselves by running. The crazed yellow men scratched us 
savagely with their overgrown finger-nails, caught at our 
legs, spattered us with mud. Not one of them used his fists. 
When we turned upon them they bounded away as if from a 
squad of cavalry, and we could get even only by catching a 
flying pig-tail in either hand, to send a pair of yellow-skinned 
rascals sprawling in the mud. They came back at us after 
every stand before we had taken a dozen steps. Our backs 
were a network of finger-nail scratches. W r e cast our eyes 
about us for some weapon, and found two muddy sticks. 
Before we could use them the Chinamen turned and lied, 
still screaming at the top of their lungs. 



302 Working My Way Around the World 

Not far beyond, we turned in at the largest building in 
the town — the Rehang barracks for soldiers. Among the 
half hundred little brown soldiers lounging about the porch 
were our comrades of the few days past. It was plain that 
they had told our story. The recruits gathered about us, 
laughing and asking questions in the deaf-and-dumb lan- 
guage. How had we liked lizard curry? What had 
turned our dainty skins so blood-red? What ignorant and 
helpless creatures were white men, were they not? 

Suddenly, while they were chattering, I thought I heard 
someone say that there was a white man on the floor above. 
W r e sprang toward the stairway at the end of the porch. 
The soldiers shrieked in alarm and snatched at my rags. 
We must not go up; it was strictly against barrack rules. 
A guardsman on duty at the foot of the stairs held his mus- 
ket out before him and feebly shouted a command. James 
caught him by the shoulder and sent him spinning along the 
veranda. W r e dashed up the steps. Two doors stood 
partly open. James snrang to one, while I pushed open the 
other. 

" Hello ! " I shouted. " W T here 's the white — " 

A roar of delight from my companion sent me hurrying 
after him. He was dancing gleefully just inside the second 
door, and shaking a white man fiercely by the hand — an 
astonished white man in khaki uniform with officer's stripes. 
I reminded the Australian of his costume, and he became 
quiet. The European invited us inside, and sent a servant 
for tea, biscuits, and cigars. Our host was commander of 
the soldiers — a Dane who spoke English well. That we 
had been wandering through the jungle he could see all too 
plainly without our telling him ; but that we had come over- 
land from Burma was a tale he could not believe until the 



Hungry Days 303 

sergeant had been called in to prove that what we said was 
true. Forgetting his military duties, the commander asked 
us wondering questions until dusk fell, and then ordered 
three of his soldiers to find us a place to spend the night. 

On the veranda the soldiers spread a pair of army blan- 
kets. We were for turning in at once. They would not 
hear of it. For a half -hour they trotted back and forth be- 
tween our bungalow and that of the commander, carrying 
steaming dishes. The table they had set up was groaning 
under its load before the sergeant signed to us to begin. 
There were broiled fish, a mutton roast, a great steak, a 
spitted fowl, and fruits and vegetables of many kinds. 

We spent the night on the veranda. We did not sleep 
there. Our sun-scorched skins would not permit it. 
Even had they burned less fiercely, we could not have slept. 
One would have fancied the place a gigantic hen-yard dur- 
ing the hours of darkness. After every shower the unveiled 
moon was greeted with a din of crowing that was awful. 
In the moments of quiet between, - e tossed about wide 
awake on our hard couch, listening to the musical tinkling 
of pagoda bells. 

When dawn came the Dane sent for us. We hurried to 
his bungalow and joined him at breakfast. He had gath- 
ered together two pairs of shoes and four khaki uniforms. 
They were from his own tailor in Bangkok, still very use- 
ful, though fitting us a bit too tightly and chafing our blis- 
tered skins. Rolling up our extra garments and swinging 
them over our shoulders, we bade our host farewell. 



CHAPTER XXV 

FOLLOWING THE MEN AM RIVER TO BANGKOK 

The path to Bangkok, such as it was, lay on the eastern 
bank of the Menam River. This time we crossed the 
stream in a dugout canoe fully thirty feet long, which held, 
besides ourselves and four paddlers, twenty-two natives, 
chiefly women. All day we tramped through jungle as 
wild as that to the westward, following the course of the 
river. We passed many bamboo villages, and for every 
hut at least a half dozen yellow curs added their yelpings to 
the uproar that greeted us as we came near. 

The inhabitants were careless " wild men " like those of 
the mountains, content to live and die in their nests of jungle 
rubbish, with never a peep at the outside world. Both the 
men and the women wore their dull black hair some two 
inches long and dressed in a bristling pompadour that made 
them look like startled porcupines. Both had jet-black 
teeth. The children were strong and healthy little animals. 

On the way we had to swim across many branches of the 
Menam River. Sometimes they were swift and deep. 
What we dreaded more were the almost motionless streams 
through which we must wade waist-deep in acres of green 
slime where poisonous snakes lay in hiding. 

The sun was still high when we reached a handsome 
large bungalow set in the center of a clearing on the bank 
of the Menam, with a half circle of huts roundabout and 
at some distance from it. The bungalow was the home of 

304 



Following Menam River to Bangkok 305 

the " jungle king," as he was called; his servants lived in the 
huts about it. 

We had heard of the king at breakfast that morning. 
''The Dane had told us of a white man from Sweden who 
was manager for a lumber company dealing in teak forests, 
and that he was called the king on account of the style in 
which he lived. 

We found the royal person sitting on the veranda of his 
palace, gazing peacefully out across the clearing. He was 
a white man who must have weighed nearly a quarter ton. 
The servants who moved about near him looked like mani- 
kins in his presence. We stopped at the foot of the veranda 
and asked for a drink of water. He looked at us without 
a sign of surprise, and with a calm wave of his hand or- 
dered a servant to bring it. One would have thought white 
men passed his palace every hour. He watched us silently 
as we drank, asked from us where we came and where 
we were going, and that was all. He was not enough inter- 
ested in our doings to ask more. 

" I can let you stay in one of my bungalows," he said, " if 
you have planned on stopping here.'' 

We were of half a mind to push on. It was an hour 
before sunset, and, to tell the truth, we were a bit disap- 
pointed at his coolness of manner. In the end we swallowed 
our pride and thanked him for the offer. It was fortunate 
for us that we did so. 

The " king " waved a hand once more, and a servant in a 
scarlet uniform stepped forth and led us to one of the half 
circle of bungalows. Five servants were sent to look after 
our wants. They put Water for us in two bath-tubs, and 
stood ready with crash towels to rub us down. Our skins 
were so painfully sunburned and scratched, however, that 



306 Working My Way Around the World 

we had to do without that service. When we had changed 
our garments, a laundryman took charge of those we had 
worn. By this time a servant had brought a phonograph 
from the palace and set it in action. How we did enjoy it! 
For weeks we had heard no music save the shrill croaking 
of lizards. 

Then came our evening feast. For days afterward James 
could not speak of that without a trembling of his voice. It 
made the supper of the night before seem like a penny lunch 
in comparison. 

We had just settled down in our bungalow to talk matters 
over, when a sudden hubbub burst forth. I dashed out upon 
the veranda. Around the palace fluttered half the people of 
the place, squawking like excited hens ; and the others were 
tumbling out of their bungalows in their hurry to join the 
crowd. 

The palace was afire. From the back of the building a 
mass of black smoke wavered upward in the evening breeze. 
When we had pushed our way through the frightened 
crowd, a slim blaze was licking at a corner of the back ve- 
randa. It was not hard to guess how it had started. At 
the foot of a bamboo post lay a sputtering kettle over a heap 
of burning sticks. Around it the natives were screaming, 
pushing, tumbling over one another, doing everything ex- 
cept putting out the fire. A dozen of them carried buckets. 
Twenty yards away was a stream. But they stood or 
rushed about helplessly waiting for someone to tell them 
what to do. 

James snatched a bucket and ran for the creek. I caught 
up the kettle and dumped the half -boiled rice on the flame. 
The Australian's first bucketful lowered the blaze some- 
what, and after that it took us only a moment to put it out 



. 



Following Menam River to Bangkok 307 

entirely. When the last spark had disappeared a native 
arrived with water from the stream. Behind him stretched 
2t long ling, of servants with overflowing buckets. They 
fought with each other in their eagerness to flood the black- 
ened corner of the veranda. Those who could not reach it 
dashed their water on the surrounding crowd and the real 



i§l4 



.■■., 







■ ■;> "■■<■>■'■ '■.■■.. . 

■;■:■ ->,-^ >.:■'■■-:' 

' -'t :.■:!:... ...... ,:,:^Ml^.v.._ '..:... 

An elephant, with a native dozing on his head, was advancing 

toward us 

firemen; then ran for more. We were obliged to pull the 
buckets out of their hands to save ourselves from drowning. 

As the last native was running across the clearing, I 
looked up to see the " king " gazing down upon us. He 
showed not a sign of excitement. 

" These wild men are a useless lot of animals," he said. 
" I 'm glad you. turned out." Then he waddled back into 
his palace. 

We returned to our bungalow and started the phonograph 
again. Fully an hour afterward the " king " walked in 



308 Working My Way Around the World 

upon us. He carried what looked like a great sausage, 
wrapped in thick brown paper. 

" I *m always glad to help a white man," he said breath- 
lessly, " especially when he has done me a service." 

I took the parcel in one hand, and nearly lost my balance 
as he let it go. It weighed several pounds. By the time I 
had recovered from my surprise he was gone. I sat down 
and unrolled the package. It contained fifty silver tecals. 

Four days later we were miles beyond the place, on our 
way toward the mouth of the Menam. As we lay resting 
in a tangled thicket, a crashing of underbrush brought us 
anxiously to our feet. We peered out through the maze of 
branches. An elephant was coming toward us. We 
jumped back in terror. A second glance showed us, how 7 - 
ever, that a native sat dozing on his head. Behind him 
came another and another of the great, heavy animals, 
fifteen in all, some with armed men on their backs. We 
stepped out of our hiding-place in time to meet the chief of 
the company, who rode between the seventh and eighth ele- 
phants on a stout-limbed pony. He. was an Englishman, a 
manager for the Bombay-Burma Lumber Company, w T ho 
had spent fifteen years in wandering through the teak for- 
ests of Siam. Never before, he declared, had he known 
white men to travel through these forests alone and without 
guns. He urged us to turn back and spend the night with 
him. When we declined, he warned us to keep a sharp 
lookout in the forest beyond, declaring that he had killed 
two tigers and a murderous savage within the past week. 

For miles we struggled on through the tangle of vines, 
bushes, and branches. Nowhere was there a sign that any- 
one had been there before us. The shadows lengthened 
eastward; twilight fell and thickened to darkness. To 



Following Menam River to Bangkok 309 

travel by night was utterly impossible. We tried to do so, 
but'' lost our way and sank to our knees in a slimy swamp. 
When we had dragged ourselves out, we found that we could 
not remember in which direction we had been traveling. 
With raging thirst and gnawing hunger, we threw ourselves 
down in the depths of the wilderness. The ground was soft 
and wet. In ten minutes we had sunk until we were half 
buried. I pulled my bundle loose and rolled over to another 
spot. It was softer and wetter than the one I had left. 

"Hark!" whispered James suddenly. " Is that a dog 
barking? Perhaps there 's a village near." 

We held our breath and listened. A far-off howl sounded 
above the dull humming of the jungle. Perhaps some dog 
was baying at the faint face of the moon. Or possibly it 
was the roar of some beast roaming about in search of prey. 
" Tigers abound," the Englishman had said. So must 
snakes in the undergrowth of this damp spot. A crackling 
of twigs close beside me sent an electric shock along my 
spine. I opened my mouth to call to James, but found I 
could n't speak. The noise had been made by the Austral- 
ian himself moving past me. He spoke before I could. 

"Hello!" he whispered. "Say, I'll get a fever if I 
sleep in this mud. Let 's try that big tree." 

It was a giant of a tree. The lowest of its wide-spread- 
ing branches the Australian could reach from my shoulders. 
He pulled me up after him, and we climbed higher. I sat 
astride a great limb, tied my bundle above me, and, leaning 
against the trunk, sank into a doze. 

I was awakened suddenly by a blow in the ribs. 

" Quit it ! " cried James angrily, thumping me again. 
" What are you tearing my clothes off for? " 

I opened my mouth to tell him I was not doing anything 



310 Working My Way Around the World 

of the kind, when I was interrupted by a noisy chattering 
in the branches above as a band of monkeys scampered aw^ay 
at the sound of our voices. They soon returned. For half 
the night those jabbering, claw T ing little brutes kept us awake, 
and ended by driving us from the tree. We spent the hours 
of darkness left on the ground at its foot, caring nothing 
for either snakes or tigers. 

When daylight came we found the river again within a 
few hundred yards of our resting-place. A good hour 
afterward w r e stumbled, more asleep than awake, into a vil- 
lage on the northern bank. The place had a shop where 
food was sold. In it we made up for the supper we had 
gone without the night before. 

Almost before we had finished eating we were in the 
center of a village fight. It was all the fault of the natives. 
We offered them money to row us across the river, but they 
turned scornfully away. When we stepped into one of the 
boats, made of dugout logs, that were drawn up on the bank, 
they charged down upon us. For a moment I thought we 
would end our wanderings in that very village. 

In the thick of the fight a howling fellow, swinging a great 
knife, bounded suddenly into- the boat. James caught him 
by an arm and a leg, and a glistening body flashed high in 
the air, gave one long-drawn shriek, and sank in the black 
water some distance behind us. When he came to the sur- 
face again he had lost his knife and we had pushed off from 
the shore. 

" Beastly savages ! " growled the Australian, catching up 
a paddle. " Serve 'em right if we kept their old hollow log 
and went down to Bangkok in her. What say we do? " he 
cried. " My feet are nothing but two blisters/' 

For answer I swung the boat half round, and we glided 



Following Menam River to Bangkok 311 

obit and down the Menam. A boat-load of natives put out 
behind us; but, instead of following directly after us, they 
paddled across the river and down the opposite bank. We 
stretched out in the bottom of the dugout, and, drifting 
with the current, let them get ahead of us. Far down the 
stream they landed and ran off into a grove of trees above 
which rose a white building. I dozed a moment, and then 
sat up suddenly with a shout. They had come back and 
were pushing off in the boat again, while behind them came 
a second canoe bearing six khaki-clothed soldiers armed 
with muskets. The white building was a military post, and 
a part of the terrible Siamese army was after us. 

" Swing her ashore," shouted James, grasping his paddle. 
" No naval battles for me." 

Our dugout ran aground near the bank. Between the 
jungle and the water's edge was a narrow open space. 
Throwing our bundles over our shoulders, we set off down 
the bank at an easy walk. The " wild men " pulled their 
boats up on the beach near the dugout, and dashed after us, 
shouting angrily. When they came near enough, the sol- 
diers drew up in a line and leveled five guns at us. Their 
sergeant shouted the Siamese words for " Ready! Fire! " 
An icy chill ran up and down my spine, but we marched 
steadily on without a pause. They did not fire. When we 
had gone on a few yards, the troop ran after us and drew 
up once more in firing line. The sergeant bellowed in very 
loud tones ; but the guns did not go off. 

Seven times this move was repeated. We were already 
a half mile from the landing-place. Suddenly a villager 
snatched a gun from a soldier, ran close up on our heels, 
and took a careful aim at us. He looked like a bold, bad 
man. My flesh crawled, in expectation of the sting of the 



312 Working My Way Around the World 

bullet. I caught myself wondering what part of my body 
it would puncture. But the fellow merely aimed, and 
shrieked in anger ; he dared not pull the trigger. 

Finding that we paid no attention when they attempted 
to frighten us, the sergeant tried a new plan. One by one, 
the bare- footed soldiers slipped up behind us and snatched 
at our packs and jackets. When we turned on them they 
fell back wild-eyed. They continued to pester us in this 
way until we lost all patience. 

" Tell me when you see the next one trying it," said 
James. 

Out of a corner of an eye I watched a soldier steal up to 
my companion and reach for his small bundle. 

" Now! " I shouted. 

The Australian whirled and caught the trooper's gun in 
both hands. The fellow let go of it with a scream, and the 
whole crowd — sergeant, soldiers, villagers, and bold, bad 
man — turned tail and fled. 

Miles beyond, we met two lone soldiers wandering north- 
ward, and, knowing that they would stop at the white build- 
ing, we made them take the gun with them. 

We plodded on. Once more we spent the night in the 
jungle, and again the ground was wet and spongy and the 
trees alive with monkeys. On the following day, for all 
our sleepiness and blistered feet, we tramped a full thirty 
miles, and spent that night in a strongly scented bamboo 
hut. 

Forty-eight hours later we came upon an unfinished rail- 
road that a German company was building in Siam. It 
was the only railroad in the country. We struck out along 
the top of it in the early afternoon, and with no thorny 
bushes or tangled vines to hinder, we got on faster than we 



Following Menam River to Bangkok 313 

'/ 

had for weeks past. Long after dark we reached the house 
of the German superintendent of the line. He gave us 
permission to sleep in a neighboring hut in which were 
stored several tons of dynamite. 

An hour's tramp next morning rought us to the work 
train. Hundreds of Chinese laborers, in mud-spattered 
trousers and leaf hats three feet wide, swarmed upon the 
flat cars as they were unloaded. We climbed on to one of 
these cars, and were jolted away with the Chinese coolies 
through the sun-scorched jungle. 

Ten miles south the train turned on to a side-track and 
stopped near a helter-skelter Chinese village. A heavy 
storm drove us into a shop where Chinese food was sold. 
We spent the whole morning talking about the nature of 
the yellow race while the store-keepers quarreled over their 
cards, and, when they tired of this, tossed back and forth 
about the room a dozen boxes of dynamite. At noon they 
set out on those same boxes a generous dinner of pork, duck, 
and rich wine, and invited us to join them. We did so, for 
we were very hungry ; but we feared that we would have to 
part with most of our money when the time came to pay the 
bill. Throughout the meal the Chinamen were most polite, 
helping us to everything good to eat. When it was over 
they rolled cigarettes in wooden wrappers for us. They 
themselves smoked these all the time, even while eating. 

" Suppose they '11 w r ant all our cash, now," groaned James, 
as I drew out my purse to pay them. But, to our great sur- 
prise, they refused to take a copper. 

" Now, what do you suppose their game is? " gasped the 
Australian. " Something tricky or I 'm a dingo. Never 
saw a pig-tail look a coin in the face yet without grabbing 
for it." 



314 Working My Way Around the World 

The head shop-keeper, an old fellow with a straggly gray 
queue and shifting eyes, swung suddenly round upon us. 

" Belly fine duck," he grinned. 

Our faces froze with astonishment. 

" Dinner all light? " he went on. " Belly good man, me. 
No takee dollies for chow. Many Chinyman takee plenty. 
You find allee same me. No blamed fear. One time me 
live 'Flisco by white man, allee same you, six year. Givee 
plenty dollies for joss-stick. Me no takee dollies for chow." 

The rest of the company had grouped themselves about 
us, laughing gleefully at the surprise which the old man had 
sprung on us. Of the eight Chinamen in the hut, six spoke 
English and had understood every word we had said. 

We spent the afternoon there while those jungle mer- 
chants taught us the Chinese names of things we would be 
likely to need. At dusk they prepared a second feast, after 
which two of them shouldered our packs and led the way 
through the wilderness to a place on the railroad where the 
engine of the work-train would stop on its way south. 

Freed of its burden of flat cars, the engine raced like a 
thing of life through the cool, silent night, turning around 
the curves so swiftly that it almost tipped sidewise. We 
sat high up, chatting with the Eurasian driver, who al- 
lowed the engine to rush madly on until the station lights 
of a large village flashed up out of the darkness. 

At noon the next day we boarded a passenger train and 
rumbled across flooded rice-fields, stopping often at excited 
bamboo villages. Then towering pagodas rose slowly 
above the southern sky-line, the jungle died away, and at 
five o'clock the daily train of Siam pulled in at the Bangkok 
station. By that time we did not look like white men. 



Following Menam River to Bangkok 315 

,Until we had shaved and washed in a barber's shop we did 
not dare introduce ourselves as such to any innkeeper of 
the Siamese capital. 



CHAPTER XXVI 

ON THE WAY TO HONG-KONG 

Spread out in the low, flat valley of the Menam, Bangkok 
was a dull city of rambling rows of cottages. Her poorly 
paved streets were crossed by many canals, on which low- 
roofed boats and floating houses set on bamboo rafts were 
rising and falling with the tide. 

The people of the city were dull and careless. They had 
the black teeth, the bristling pompadour, and they wore no 
more clothing than their brothers of the trackless bush. 
There were many Chinamen and some Europeans. 

We found that deck passage to Hong-Kong cost next to 
nothing, and four days after our arrival we went to buy 
tickets at the steamship offices. The next afternoon a 
" wild woman " paddled us lazily across the Menam in a 
raging downpour, and set us aboard a small steamer that 
was officered by five Germans and manned by a hundred 
Chinese seamen, stokers, and stewards. When the Ger- 
mans and Chinese talked tog&ther they spoke English. 

Three hours after we boarded the vessel she cast off her 
shore lines and slipped doWri per the sand-bar at the mouth 
of the river. Never before had she carried white men as 
deck passengers. The Chinese thought the deck belonged 
to men of their race, and that we had no business there. 
They glared at us with scowls and snarls when we came on 
board, and tried their best to get in our way and to bump 
against us while about their work. We laughed at their un- 
friendly acts, and, choosing a place back of the wheel-house, 

316 



On the Way to Hong-Kong 317 




Bangkok is a city of many canals 

took our coats off and settled down for a long and tiresome 
voyage. 

On the afternoon of our second day aboard, about thirty 



318 Working My Way Around the World 

Chinese stewards marched to our end of the vessel with 
their bowls of rice, and squatted in a half circle about us. 
We paid no attention to them. One of them sat down on 
the bundle containing my camera. When I motioned for 
him to get off, the fellow leered at me and refused to 
move. I pushed him off, and picked up my bundle. In 
his fall he dropped and broke his rice-bowl. The entire 
crowd sprang to their feet. 

" Kang kweitze!" ("Kill the foreigners!") screamed 
the chief of the stewards suddenly. With a roar* the China- 
men surged forward. A heavy piece of timber struck me 
a stunning blow on the back of the head, and I landed face 
down among some chains near the railing. 

When I came to enough to realize what had happened to 
me, a dozen Chinamen were beating me with bamboo clubs. 
I struggled to my feet. James was laying about him right 
merrily. Inch by inch we fought our way around the deck, 
and had almost freed ourselves, when James stumbled and 
fell headlong. A score of Chinamen rushed at him; every 
man of them struck him blow after blow with some weapon. 
A Chinaman struck at me with a long thin knife. I threw 
up my right hand, grasping the blade. It cut my palm and 
slashed my wrist ; but the fellow let go of the weapon. I 
snatched hold of it with my other hand and with its help 
fought our way forward, where four of the German officers 
stood huddled together like frightened sheep. 

We washed our wounds in salt water and bound them up 
as best we could. The captain armed himself with two 
revolvers and marched down the deck to restore order 
among his seamen. He pretended that it had not been 
much of a fight, and tried to laugh it off; but he turned 
over to us an unfurnished cabin and left us to spend a fever- 






On the Way to Hong-Kong 319 

ish and painful night on the wooden slats of the narrow 
bunks. In the morning there was not a spot the size of a 
man's hand on either of our bodies that was not blaek and 
blue. 

Eight weary days the creaking old tramp of a ship 
wheezed past the many bays that cut into the southern coast 
of French Indo-China. Early one gray morning, one year 
after my departure from Detroit, two small islands rose 
from the sea on our left. Several queer-looking Chinese 
boats, manned by evil- faced, unshaven yellow men, bobbed 
up out of the dawn, and, hooking the rail of our vessel with 
grappling-irons, floated along beside us, while their crews 
shouted to the passengers, offering to help them with their 
baggage. Greener islands appeared, and when we slipped 
into the horseshoe-shaped harbor of Hong-Kong it was 
still half shaded by the forest that incloses it. 

A Chinese house-boat containing a large family set us 
ashore. We made our way to the Sailors' Home. My 
hand had healed, but James was still so badly injured that 
we tried to secure entrance for him at the city hospital. 
For several days he was turned away ; but at last, when he 
had become much worse, he was admitted, and I turned 
my attention to outgoing ships, eager to be off, though 
sorry to leave behind the best companion with whom I had 
ever shared the joys and miseries of the open road." 

The next morning I boarded an English freight steamer 
about to sail for Shanghai, and asked for work to pay for 
my passage. 

" Sure, lad," cried the good-natured British mate. 
" Come on board to-night and go to work. The old man 
will be glad to give you a few bob for the run." 

At midnight we sailed. Four days later we were steam- 



320 Working My Way Around the World 

ing slowly up the dark river between flat banks and ware- 
houses. Our ship stopped close by the Sailors' Home. 

I saw many Americans and Europeans in Shanghai. In 
fact, the city is filled with blocks of great buildings where 
business is carried on solely by European merchants. 
Outside the European section lies many a square mile of 
two-story shanties that crowd one another in an effort to 
stand upright. The maze of narrow foot-paths winding 
among these buildings are' aglow with the brilliant sign- 
boards of gay Chinese shops, and swarm with sour-faced 
yellow men who scowl fiercely at the white foot traveler, 
or mock his movements and make faces at him. Cackling 
peddlers zigzag through the crowd ; wealthy Chinamen in 
gay robes and carefully oiled queues pick their way along 
the narrow meandering lanes. Great, muscular runners, 
carrying on one shoulder a Chinese lady who cannot walk, 
jog in and out among the shoppers. 

After spending three days in Shanghai I awoke one morn- 
ing to find it raining dismally. To spend a day indoors was 
too much for me, and I began to think of continuing my 
journey. So I packed my belongings hurriedly, and an 
hour later was slipping down the plank on board a Japanese 
steamer. Among several hundred third-class passengers I 
was the only European; but I was treated kindly by my 
fellow-travelers. Our sleeping quarters consisted of two 
shelves sloping toward the wall and running along half the 
length of the ship. In my ignorance, I neglected to apply 
for a place on this shelf until every foot of it had been 
claimed. But I lost nothing thereby; for no sooner was it 
noised about among the Japanese that an American was 
aboard without a place to sleep than a dozen crowded round 
to offer me their places. I joined a party of four students 



On the Way to Hong-Kong 321 

returning from Pekin, and, by packing ourselves together 
like spoons, we found room without robbing any other of 
his rest. 

On the second morning out, the rolling green hills of 
Japan rose slowly above the sun-flecked sea. My com- 
panions cried out joyfully when they caught sight of their 
native land, and tried to make me believe that it was the 
most beautiful spot on the globe. We soon steamed into 
the harbor of Nagasaki. From the water's edge rose a 
brown-roofed town that covered low green mountains like 
a wrinkled brown carpet, and faded away into the blue 
wreaths of hillside forests. 

The port was busy and noisy. House-boats, in which 
stood Japanese policemen in snow-white uniforms, scurried 
toward us. Close to our vessel two dull gray battle-ships 
scowled out across the harbor. Doctors, custom officers, 
and armed policemen crowded on board. By blazing noon- 
day I had stepped ashore. 



CHAPTER XXVII 

WANDERING IN JAPAN 

" Set me down at the Sailors' Home," I ordered, stepping 
into the first 'rickshaw to reach me. 

" No good," answered the runner, dropping the shafts. 
44 Sailor Home he close." 

However, I found a hotel beside a canal down near the 
harbor. The proprietor, awakened from a doze, gurgled 
a welcome. He was an American who had lived for some 
years in Nagasaki. The real manager of the hotel was his 




My 'rickshaw man whose picture I took from my seat in the 'rickshaw 
while seeing the sights of Tokio 



Japanese wife, a lively woman who seemed to have a bet- 
ter head for business than her husband. They had two 
interesting children, a boy and a girl of twelve and ten. 
No American children could have been more quick to see 
and act, or more whole-heartedly busy at their work and 
play; no Japanese more polite of behavior. Already the 

322 



Wandering in Japan 



323 



father asked his son's advice in business matters of im- 
portance ; and the mother depended upon her daughter to 
look after the flower garden and the wardrobe. 

I was given an airy chamber where I could have slept 
late next morning had I not been awakened at daybreak 
bv what seemed to be several shots from a revolver. I 




Numadzu 



A view of the fishermen along the river, 
fish can be seen on the bank 



Rows of huge 



sprang to the window, wondering what had happened. In 
the yard below squatted the American-Japanese children, 
with a stick of " punk " and a great bundle of fire-crackers. 
I had forgotten the date. It was the Fourth of July, and 
Nagasaki was celebrating. All through the day shots and 
explosions were heard about the city; nor was the racket 
made entirely by Americans. 



■HMR 



324 Working My Way Around the World 

On other days the boy and girl of the hotel dressed ex- 
actly like their playmates, and no sooner turned their backs 
on their father than they began at once to speak the Japa- 
nese language. But on this American day the boy wore 
a knickerbocker suit and leather shoes ; his sister had laid 
aside her kimono and wooden sandals to wear a short skirt 
and long stockings. Instead of the fancy coil on top of 
her head, her jet-black hair hung in two braids over her 
shoulders; and all that day they spoke nothing but the 
English language. 

Two days later I hunted up the railway station and took 
third-class passage for Hiroshima. The train wound 
through a rolling country, here circling the base of a 
thickly wooded hill, there clinging close to the shore of 
a sparkling bay. Farm crops grew in every valley and 
on every hillside. Peasants toiled in the fields; their neat 
cottages dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see. 
We passed through village after village. The stations were 
well built and bore the name of the town in both Japanese 
and English. 

The trains were like those of America, but every car 
was a smoker; for tobacco is used by almost every man 
and woman in Japan. There were ladies seated in the car, 
smoking pipes that looked like long lead-pencils with bowls 
that held much less than the smallest thimble. There were 
no dining-cars. At nearly every station boxes containing 
rice, several boiled and pickled vegetables, one baked fish, 
and a pair of chop-sticks only half split in two, were sold. 
The contents were always the same; the price surprisingly 
low. 

I reached Hiroshima at twilight, and left the train in 
company with two English-speaking Japanese youths who 



Wandering in Japan 325 

had taken upon themselves the task of finding me a lodg- 
ing. The keeper of a hotel not far from the station said 
that he had never housed a white man, but that he would 
for a change. I bade my new acquaintances farewell. 

The hotel office was paved with small stones from which 
a broad stairway led upward. The keeper shouted a word 
of command. A smiling woman, short and fat, with a wide 
sash wound round and F 
round her waist, appeared 
on the landing above and 
beckoned me to climb up. 

I caught up my bundle; gp 

but before I had mounted A.wiAiitta« 

two steps the proprietor 
sprang forward with a 
scream, and, clutching at 
my coat-tails, dragged me 
back. Half a dozen serv- 
ant-girls tumbled wild-eyed 
into the office and joined 
the landlord in scolding 
me. I had dared to start . ■ 

up the Stairway without re- Some street urchins near Tokio 
moving my shoes ! 

I pulled them off. The keeper, grinning at their weight, 
added them to a line of wooden sandals placed along 
the wall ; and the stout woman led me to a small room with 
a balcony opening on the street. Everything about the place 
made me feel as if I were a giant among pigmies: the 
low ceiling, covered with gayly painted dragons ; the 
walls, mere sliding screens of paper stamped with flowers 
and strange figures ; the highly polished floor of such light 




326 Working My Way Around the World 

boards that they bent under my feet with every step. With 
a flying start I could have run straight through the house 
and left it a wreck behind me. 




Osaka : One of her many canals 

The room was entirely unfurnished. My hostess placed 
a cushion for me in the center of the floor, and clapped her 
hands. A servant-girl slipped in, carrying a tray on which 
was a tiny box of live coals, several cigarettes, a joint of 
bamboo standing upright, and a pot of tea with a cup and 
saucer. Having placed her burden at my feet and touched 
her forehead to the floor, the maid handed me a cigarette, 
poured out tea, and remained kneeling a full half hour, 
filling the tiny cup as often as I emptied it. 

When she was gone I picked up the joint of bamboo, 
fancying it contained sweetmeats. It was empty, however, 



Wandering in Japan 327 

and I was left to wonder until the hostess returned. When 
she understood my motions, she began to explain by talk- 
ing rapidly ; but I shook my head. Then, with a wry face, 
she caught up the hollow joint and spat into it. The thing 
was merely a Japanese spittoon. 

A maid soon served supper. She brought first of all a 
table some eight inches high ; then a great wooden bucket 
brimming full of hard-packed rice ; and, lastly, several lit- 
tle paper bowls. One held an oily liquid in which floated 
the yolk of an egg; another a small boiled turnip; a third 
a sample of some native salad; at the bottom of a fourth 
lay, in dreary loneliness, a pitiful little minnow. Of rice 
there was enough" for a squad of soldiers, but without it the 
meal could not have satisfied a hungry canary. 

As I ate, the girl poured out tea in a cup that held a 
single swallow. Fortunately, I had already learned how 
to use chop-sticks, or I should have been forced to eat with 
my fingers. As it was, it took a great deal of skill to possess 
myself of the swimming yolk ; and he who fancies it is easy 
to balance a satisfying mouthful of rice on the ends of two 
slivers has only to try it to discover his mistake. 

I fancied I might have to sleep on the polished floor ; but 
the hotel -keeper's wife glided in once more, and asked, by 
resting her head in the palm of her hand, if I was ready 
to go to bed. I nodded, and at her signal a servant ap- 
peared with a quilt of great thickness, which she spread 
in the center of the floor. This seemed of itself a soft 
enough resting-place ; but not until six pudding-like covers 
had been piled one on top of the other was the landlady 
content. Over this couch, that had taken on the form of 
a huge layer-cake, the two of them spread a coverlet, — 
there were no sheets, — and backed out of the room. They 



328 Working My Way Around the World 

returned shortly after dragging behind them a great net. 
While the matron fastened the four corners of the top 
to hooks in the ceiling, the maid tucked the edges under 
the stack of quilts, so that the net formed a sort of tent 




Horses are rare in Japan. Men and baggage are drawn by coolies 

over my bed. I crawled under it, and was soon asleep. 
How surprised I was when I awoke in the morning! It 
was broad daylight. The sun was streaming in across the 
balcony, and the constant scraping of wooden clogs sounded 
from the street below. But the room in which I had gone 
to bed had entirely disappeared ! I sat up with bulging eyes. 
Under me was the stack of quilts, but all else was changed. 
The net was gone, and I sat alone and deserted in the cen- 
ter of a large hall, the front of which for its entire length 
opened on to the public street. The change was no magi- 
cian's trick, though it was several moments before I was 



Wandering in Japan 329 

sufficiently wide awake to understand what had happened. 
The servant-girls had merely pushed together the screens 
that made the walls. 

Later I managed to find the highway that led out of 
Hiroshima. It led the way between bright green hedge- 





Japanese children playing in the streets of Kioto 

rows, through village after village, past many farm-houses 
and rice-fields. The air was fresh and cheering, and I was 
often within sight of the bright blue arm of old ocean that 
wound in and out along the coast. Now and then an ocean 
liner, awakening memories of far-off lands, glided by. In 
shallow bays unclad fishermen, too brown to sunburn, dis- 
entangled their nets and heaped high their catches in wicker 
baskets. 

It needed a very few hours on the road to teach me that 
the country people of Japan are very curious — even more 
so than the Arab. I had only to pass through a village to 



330 Working My Way Around the World 

cause all business to stop. Workmen dropped their tools, 
children forgot their games, girls left their pitchers at the 
fountain, even gossips ceased their chatter — all to stare 
wide-eyed if I passed on, to crowd around me if I paused. 
Wherever I stopped for a drink of water, the town rose 




Women do most of the work in the rice-fields of Japan 

in a mass to watch my strange action. When I set the cup 
down they passed it wonderingly from hand to hand. To 
stop for a lunch was almost dangerous, for the crowd that 
collected at the door of the shop threatened to do me to 
death under their trampling clogs. In the smaller villages 
the whole population, men, women, and children, followed 
me out along the highway, leaving the place as utterly de- 
serted as if the dogs of war had been loosed upon it. Once 
I passed a school at the recess hour. Its two hundred 
children trailed behind me for a long mile, paying no atten- 



Wandering in Japan 331 

tion to the jangling bell and the shouts of their excited 
masters. 

Partly by foot and partly by rail, I finally reached Kyoto, 
where I spent a day. At the station next morning four yen 
were more than enough for a ticket to Tokyo, with stop- 
overs anywhere I chose. At Maibara a squad of Russian 
prisoners, clothed in arctic cloaks and fur caps, huddled in 
a sweltering group on the station platform. As long as 
the train stood there not a sound of mockery rose from the 
crowd, and the towns-people came in a continual procession 
to offer the silent fellows baskets of fruit, packets of- to- 
bacco, and all manner of delicacies. 

From Nagoya the railway turned southward, following 
the coast, so that again I caught frequent glimpses of the 
ocean as we sped along, passing through a country filled 
with rice-fields, where peasant women wallowed in the 
water, clawing with bare hands the mud about the roots 
of the rice plants. On slopes too steep to be flooded, long 
rows of tea bushes stretched from the railway to the wooded 
tops of the hills. 

I reached Yokohama at night, and stopped at the Sailors' 
Home, certain that in this city I could soon get work on 
some vessel going to my native land. I squandered the 
seven yen I had left, and on a morning late in July wan- 
dered down to the port to ask for work on some ship. 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

HOMEWARD BOUND 

It was Saturday, nearly two weeks after my arrival in 
Yokohama, that I saw a chance to escape from Japan. The 
American consul had promised to speak for me to the cap- 
tain of a fast mail steamer to sail a few days later. 

Early the following Monday, the last day of July, I 
turned in at the American consul's office just as two men 
stepped out. One was the vice-consul ; the other, a large 
man of some fifty years, wearing thick-rimmed spectacles 
and a broad-brimmed felt hat. His black hair was un- 
usually long. I supposed he was a missionary, and stepped 
aside to let him pass. The vice-consul, however, catching 
sight of me as he shook the stranger's hand, beckoned to me. 

" By the way," he said, speaking to the stranger; " here 
is an American sailor who wants to work his passage to 
the States. Can't you take him on, captain? " 

Captain, indeed! Of what? The fast mail steamer, 
perhaps. I stepped forward eagerly. 

" Umph ! " said the stranger, looking me over. "On 
the beach, eh ? Why, yes ; he can come on board and I '11 
set him at work.'' 

" Good ! " cried the vice-consul. " There you are ! Now 
don't loaf and make us ashamed to ask a favor of the cap- 
tain next time." 

" Go get something to eat," said the captain, " and wait 
for me on the pier." 

332 



Homeward Bound 333 

I raced away to the Home to invite one of the " boys " 
I had met there to a farewell luncheon, then returned to 
the place of meeting. The day was stormy, and a dozen 
downpours drenched me as many times during the seven 
hours that I waited. Toward nightfall the captain drove 
up in a 'rickshaw, and we stepped into his launch. 

Ten minutes later I should have given much to 
have been able to spring back on the wharf. The launch 
raced at full speed out across the harbor, past the last 
steamer riding at anchor, and turned toward the open sea. 
Where in the name of Father Neptune was she bound? I 
wiped the water from my eyes and gazed in astonishment 
at the fast disappearing shore. The last ship was already 
behind. The higher waves of the outer bay caught our 
tiny boat as she slipped through the mouth of the break- 
water, and sent me waltzing about the slippery deck. Was 
the long-haired captain a lunatic who had chosen a launch 
for a sea voyage? Then all at once I understood, and 
gasped with dismay. Far off through the driving rain 
appeared the towering masts of the sailing-vessels, and that 
one toward which we were headed had her sails bent, ready 
for starting. That vice-consul had sentenced me to work 
my way home on a sailing-vessel ! 

Dusk was settling over the harbor when the launch 
bumped against the ship's side. Several seamen, sprawl- 
ing about the deck, sprang to their feet as I poked my head 
over the bulwarks. 

"Hooray!" bawled a loud voice. "A new shipmate, 
lads. Turn out an' see." 

Sailors dressed and half dressed stumbled out on the 
deck; and in the twinkling of an eye I was surrounded by 
all hands and the cook. 



334 Working My Way Around the World 

The cook gave me leave to dry my uniform in the galley, 
and I went to the forecastle to tell my story to the excited 
crew. 





When I arrived in Yokohama I found the city decorated in honor of 
Secretary Taft's party, which, with Miss Roosevelt, arrived July 25, 
1905. The arch through which they drove to the station is made of 
evergreens 

" It 's a ragged deal t' 'ave t' work your passage 'ome on 
a wind-jammer," cried one of the seamen, when I had fin- 
ished. " Howsomever, 'ere you are, an' it 's no use kickin' 
after you 're 'ung. 

" This tub? " he went on, in answer to my question about 
the ship. " She 's the Glenalvon, English built, as you can 
see wi' your eyes shut, solid enough, being all iron but 'er 
decks ; but that 's all can be said for 'er. This crowd 
shipped on 'er from England two years ago with loaded 



Homeward Bound 335 

saltpeter for Yokohama, and she 's bound now for the States 
all right — to load wheat for 'ome, like 'nough. Maybe 
it '11 take a month to get there." 

By the time my clothes were dry the second mate came 
forward to tell me what my work was to be, and I turned 
in with my new mess-mates. It barely seemed possible that 
I had fallen asleep, when there came a banging on the iron 
door of the sailors' room and a noisy shout of: 

"All hands! Up anchor, ho!" 

With only five minutes to jump into our clothes, we 
tumbled out hurriedly. Twenty-two men and boys, their 
heads still heavy with sleep, grasped the bars of the cap- 
stan — the wheel that pulled up the anchor. For four 
hours we marched round and round the creaking thing. 
One man at a proper machine could have raised the anchor 
in ten minutes; but the Glcnalvon had not so much as a 
donkey-engine. 

Dawn found us still treading around in a circle in time 
to a mournful song sung by long-winded members of the 
crew. The sun rose, and the sweat ran in streams along the 
bars. Hunger gnawed us inwardly. The captain went 
ashore for his morning outing, a steamer slipped by us, and 
I caught myself gazing sorrowfully away across the bay 
at the city we were about to leave behind. 

Then all at once the second mate, peering over the side, 
raised a hand. 

" Shake 'em out ! " he bellowed. " All hands ! Man the 
wheel! " 

The crew sprang into the rigging and climbed the masts. 
We loosened a dozen sails, and, leaving a man on each mast 
to fasten the ropes, slid down on deck again. Then came 
a harder task, to raise the upper topsail-yards — timbers 



336 Working My Way Around the World 

that kept the sails stretched out to their full width. Every 
man on board pulled on the rope ; even then we were not 
enough. The heavy iron yard rose, but only inch by inch; 
and every pull seemed to yank our arms half out of their 
sockets. 

It was finally fastened in place, however Then, breaking 
up into smaller groups, the crew raised more timbers, and, 
when we turned in for breakfast an hour late, weak and 
ugly from hunger, the Glcnalvon was ready to sail. 

" At least," I told myself, rubbing my aching arms be- 
tween mouthfuls of watery soup, " we 're off, and the worst 
is over." 

Which only proved how r little I knew of the queer ways 
of " wind-jammers." 

Refusing to hire a tug, our captain was determined to 
beat his way out of Tokyo harbor by tacking back and 
forth against the wind that blew steadily in at the mouth 
of the bay. A bellow called us on deck before breakfast 
was half over, to go about ship again. A few more mouth- 
fuls, and we were at it again. But it was of no use. The 
wind blew stronger and held us back ; the bay was narrow. 
On the third time across the captain moved too near the 
shore, lost his head, and roared' out an order: 

" Let go the anchor ! " 

The anchor dropped with a mighty roar and rattle of 
chain ; sails came down with a run ; ropes screamed through 
the blocks; the topsails fell with a crash; sails swelled out 
and snapped in the breeze with the boom of cannon ; blocks 
fell about our heads ; ropes and chains of every size threshed 
about the decks, snatching us off our feet and slashing us 
in the face; men and goats sprawled about the deck. It 
seemed as if an earthquake had struck us, and in three min- 



Homeward Bound 337 

utes the work of five toilsome hours had been utterly un- 
done. 

When the uproar ceased we began the work of restoring 
things to order again — furled the sails, raised yards, coiled 
up the thousand and one ropes that carpeted the deck, at- 
tended to many other tasks. To most people this would 
have seemed work enough for one day. But after less than 
a half hour for dinner we were called out once more and 
sent over the side with our paint-pots. 

Exactly the same thing happened to us the next day, and 
the next. Day after day the wind blew steadily in at the 
mouth of the harbor, holding us there. 

A week went by. A ship that had long ridden at anchor 
near the Glenalvon was towed out to sea and sailed away. 
The fast mail steamer glided by so close that one of the 
" boys " whom I had known at the Sailors' Home waved 
to me from her deck. A dozen ships went in and out, and 
still the white cone of Fujiyama gazed down upon us. The 
harbor of Yokohama came to be a sight hateful to all on 
board. The crew was worn out in body and spirit, and I 
began to give up hope of ever again setting foot on land. 

But our skipper was forced to hire a tug at last. On 
the morning of August eleventh we turned out to raise the 
anchor for the tenth time. The skipper had been rowed 
ashore the afternoon before, and a tug was waiting to take 
us out of the harbor. Late in the day she dropped us 
outside the narrows, and when night fell the Glenalvon 
was tossing on the open sea. 

We had no time to feel dull on the trip across. First of 
all, the breeze that had held us bottled up in the harbor 
for twelve days increased to a heavy gale. For more than 
a week it blew steadily from the. same direction. Rain 



338 Working My Way Around the World 








A Yokohama street decorated for the Taft party 

poured constantly. Lashed by the storm, the sea rose 
mountain high, and the ship reared like a cow-boy's broncho, 
or lay on her side like a mortally wounded creature. 



Homeward Bound 339 

There was no standing on the deck. The best pair of 
sea legs failed to do it. We moved like mountain goats 
on a mountain-peak, springing from post to railing and 
from railing to stairway, or dragging ourselves hand over 
hand along the ropes. After a time the wind changed in 
direction so often that every square of canvas had to be 
furled, rolled up, and shaken out again a dozen times a 
day. The bellow ordering us about was forever ringing 
in our ears. We lived in the rigging, like apes in tree- 
tops. 

The wind, the pouring rain, and the sudden gales con- 
tinued for weeks. The weather turned bitter cold. Un- 
able to hold her course, the Glcnalvon ran " by the wind " 
far to the north. One night in the second week out, a goat 
froze to death. With only my khaki uniform, I should 
have suffered the same fate had it not been for the kindness 
of a shipmate who allowed me to use a " dead man's gear " 
which he was afraid to wear. 

To tell of all the hardships and misfortunes that befell 
us during that voyage would make this story too long. 
We slept in wooden bins on sacks filled with bits of straw 
and lashed ourselves fast to keep from being thrown out 
on the deck. The kind of beds we had mattered little, 
though, for we were not in them much of the time. The 
food fell so low that we had to get along on half rations; 
which was well, perhaps, for what was left had been on 
board more than two years. The biscuits in one cask 
opened toward the end of the voyage, were stamped with the 
date of 1878. 

Looking forward to an easy passage, the captain had 
rigged out the ship in her oldest suit of sails. One by one. 
the fury of the wind tore them to ribbons. The bursting 



340 Working My Way Around the World 

of canvas sounded above the roar of every storm. As 
each sail went, new ones of double- weight canvas were 
dragged from the locker and raised on high to the top of 
the mast. It was dangerous work to hang on away up 
there while bending a sail on the icy poles, with the wind 
howling about you, the foot-rope slippery, and every line 
frozen stiff, while the ship swung back and forth far below 
like a cork on the end of a stick. Every old sail was car- 
ried away before that unchanging wind, and even the new 
canvas was sometimes split. 

On the eighth of September we found that, after all our 
work, we had covered just sixty miles! But on that day 
the wind changed, and our vessel caught the breeze on her 
beam and raced homeward like a steamer. 

On the nineteenth day of September some one said that 
we were nearing port. Several of the seamen declared that 
the voyage was not half over ; but, for all that, everybody be- 
gan to get excited. In the middle of the afternoon the 
mate gave an order to get the anchor over the side. He 
did not have to repeat the command. The men rushed to 
the work, laughing childishly. In a short time the anchor 
swung in place, and we waited impatiently for signs of 
land. 

But the best pair of eyes could not have made out a moun- 
tain a ship's length away in the fog that enveloped us. For 
two days we beat up and down the coast, not knowing just 
where we were, while the crew nibbled stale biscuits in 
helpless rage. 

On the twenty-first the gale died down to a quieter 
breeze, and in the early afternoon the fog thinned and 
lifted, and a mighty cheer from the watch brought every 
man tumbling from his bunk. A few miles off before us 



Homeward Bound 341 

a rocky highland rose slowly, throwing off the gray mist 
like a giant freeing himself of a flowing garment. A tug 
hovering near the shore spied the flapping canvas of the 
Glenalvon, and darted out to meet us. We were near the 
entrance to Puget Sound. 

All night long the tug strained at the ropes of our vessel. 
In the afternoon we dropped anchor in a quiet bay close 
off a wooded shore decorated by several wigwams. 

The next morning I began work with the crew as usual, 
and toiled from daylight to dark. No hint that I was to 
be freed from duty having reached me by the next after- 
noon, I marched forward and asked for my discharge. 

"What's your hurry?" demanded the captain. "I'll 
sign you on at full wages and you can make the trip home 
in her." 

" Thank you kindly, sir," I answered, " but I 'm home 
now, once I get ashore." 

■" Aye ! " snorted the captain. " And in three days you '11 
be on the beach and howling to sign on again. Turn to 
with the crew until she 's tied up in Tacoma, and I '11 give 
you your discharge." 

I told him plainly that I could not wait. I wanted to go 
ashore at once. 

" Huh ! That 's it ! " growled the master. " Every man 
jack of you with the price of a drink coming to him is ready 
to desert if a shift of work turns up. Well, to-morrow is 
Sunday. I '11 get some money when I go ashore, and pay 
you off on Monday morning. But I '11 have to set you 
down on the records as a deserter." 

" Very good, sir," I answered. 

Fifty-seven days after boarding the Glenalvon I bade 
farewell to her crew. Dressed in a khaki uniform and an 



342 Working My Way Around the World 

ancient pair of sea-boots that had cost me four messes of 
plum-duff, I landed with the captain at a rocky point on 
the farther side of the bay. He marched before me until 
we reached the door of a lonely tavern, then turned and 
dropped into my hand seven and a half dollars. 

" You must be back on board by to-morrow night/' he 
said. 

"Eh!" I gasped. 

" Oh, I have to tell you that/' snapped the skipper, " or I 
can't set you down as a deserter," and, pushing aside the 
swinging doors before him, he disappeared. 

I plodded on toward the city of Victoria. The joy of 
being on land once more — above all, of being my own 
master — was so keen that it was with difficulty that I 
kept myself from cutting a caper in the public street. 

I was really in a foreign land still ; yet how everything 
about made me think of the fatherland from which I had 
been so long absent. The wooden sidewalk drumming un- 
der my boots ; the cozy houses, roofed with shingles instead 
of tiles, and each standing far back from the street on its 
own green lawn; the tinkle of cow-bells in neighboring 
pastures — a hundred little unimportances, that I had hardly 
noticed when I lived among them, stood forth to call up 
memories of the years gone by. In Victoria each passer-by 
seemed like a long-lost friend, so familiar did each look in 
face, clothing, and actions. All that day, as often as I 
heard a voice behind me, I whirled about and stared at the 
speaker, utterly astonished that he should be speaking Eng- 
lish. 

I caught the night boat for Seattle, and landed at mid- 
night in my native land, after an absence of four hundred 
and sixty-six days. 



Homeward Bound 343 

For two days following I did little but sleep. Then I 
boarded a train one evening to continue eastward, landing 
in Spokane the second night thereafter. My wages as a 
seaman being nearly spent, I stopped a week in Spokane, 
where I helped build cement sidewalks. At the end of that 
time I shipped as a railway laborer to Paola, Montana. 

The train halted at midnight at the station named, a 

lonely shanty in a wild mountain gorge. 

The next morning I went on to Havre. While stepping 
from one of its restaurants, a ranchman accosted me. He 
put me in charge of seven carloads of cattle, and when night 
fell I was speeding eastward again. 

Six days later I turned the animals over to the tender 
mercies of a packing-house in Chicago, and on the morning 
of October fourteenth walked into the home of my parents. 



